Chapter 3

Mrs. Jenkins didn't leave quietly. Though I had officially fired her again, she still had one more day of "service" she claimed the agency required her to complete. Against my better judgment, I let her in, wanting to sever ties with the agency cleanly and without drama. It was a mistake.

She didn't speak to me. Instead, she communicated her rage through action. She scrubbed the kitchen counters with such force I thought she might wear through the granite. She slammed cabinets and drawers, the sharp sounds echoing through the apartment like gunshots. When she vacuumed, she rammed the machine into the legs of my chairs and the baseboards, leaving small nicks and scratches in her wake. It was a petty, passive-aggressive display of fury.

I tried to ignore it, hiding in my home office with the door closed. But then she appeared at the doorway.

"I'm clearing out the linen closet," she announced, her voice tight. "There are some towels in there, the Egyptian cotton ones. I'll be taking those."

I looked up from my laptop, stunned by her audacity. "Excuse me? You'll be taking them? Those are my towels."

"You gave them to me," she said flatly. "You said I should take them if my old ones got worn out."

"No, I didn't," I said, my voice rising. "I have never, ever told you to take my things. Those towels cost a fortune."

"They were a gift!" she insisted, her hands on her hips. "Just like that silver picture frame on the mantelpiece. I've always admired it. I'll take that as well, for sentimental reasons."

The sheer nerve of it was breathtaking. She wasn't just a scammer; she was a common thief, trying to walk out with my belongings in broad daylight.

"You will not touch a single thing in this house that doesn't belong to you," I said, standing up. My chair scraped loudly against the hardwood floor. "The towels stay. The frame stays. Everything stays."

She let out a derisive snort. "You're so cheap. You have all this money and you're worried about a few old towels."

She turned and stomped back toward the living room, muttering under her breath about how ungrateful and stingy I was, loud enough for me to hear every word.

That was the final straw. All the frustration, the anger, the sense of betrayal from the past few days boiled over. I marched out of my office and confronted her in the middle of the living room.

"Enough!" I yelled. My voice was louder than I intended, sharp and commanding.

She jumped, startled, a feather duster in her hand.

"Do not call me cheap in my own home. Do not accuse me of being ungrateful when you are the one who has been trying to cheat and steal from me for days. You are not my friend. You are not my family. You are a housekeeper, hired through an agency, to perform a service. And your service has been terminated."

Her face twisted into a mask of indignation. "How dare you speak to me like that!"

"I will speak to you however I see fit when you are in my home, attempting to steal my property," I shot back. "One more word, one more slam of a cabinet, one more attempt to take something that isn't yours, and I will call the agency manager right now and tell her exactly what you've been doing. I will tell her about the condo, the handbag, and these towels. How do you think that will go over?"

The threat hit its mark. Fear flickered in her eyes, replacing the anger. Her career, her ability to get another job in this community, depended on her reputation with the agency.

"You wouldn't," she whispered.

"Try me," I said, my phone already in my hand.

Her shoulders slumped in defeat. But the defeat quickly curdled into pure malice.

"You think you're so smart," she spat, her voice low and venomous. "You think you've won."

"I think this is over," I said coldly. "Get your things and go. Now."

She threw the feather duster onto my expensive cream-colored sofa.

"Fine. I'll go. But I hope you're miserable in your new life. I hope you get to Seattle and you're all alone. I hope your fancy new job falls apart and you come crawling back here with nothing. You'll get what you deserve. People like you always do."

The curses were so vile, so personal, they left me speechless for a moment. She grabbed her purse and coat, then turned at the door for one last parting shot.

"You'll be sorry," she hissed.

Then she was gone.

I stood in the silence of my living room, my heart pounding. A deep, shuddering breath escaped my lips. I walked to the door, locked it, and leaned my forehead against the cool wood. It was over. It had been ugly and stressful, but it was finally, truly over.

Or so I thought.