Chapter 4

A week passed. I hired a new cleaning service from a different, highly-vetted agency and instructed my building's security to never, under any circumstances, allow Mrs. Jenkins on the premises. I was starting to feel normal again, focusing on the logistics of my move and the excitement of my new role.

I had to fly to Seattle for a few days of preliminary meetings. When I returned late one evening, exhausted from the flight, I unlocked my condo door and walked into a nightmare.

Mrs. Jenkins was standing in my kitchen, wiping down the counters as if she owned the place.

I froze in the doorway, my luggage handle digging into my palm. "What are you doing here?"

She turned, a smug smile on her face. "Well, look who's back. I was just finishing up."

"I told you not to come back," I said, my voice tight with a mixture of shock and rage. "I told security not to let you in. How did you get up here?"

"Oh, that new girl you hired called in sick," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "The agency was in a bind, so they called me. They know I'm dependable. And you're still on my client list, technically. It's not very kind of you, you know, trying to have me banned. Very petty."

Her ability to twist reality and paint me as the villain was truly breathtaking. She was trespassing, and she was acting like I was the one who had wronged her.

"I don't care if the entire agency called in sick," I said, dropping my suitcase with a thud. "You are not welcome in my home. I have the right to refuse service from anyone, especially you. I want you to leave. Right now."

"Fine, fine," she said, taking off the rubber gloves with exaggerated slowness. "No need to be so hostile. I'll just collect my pay and be on my way."

She picked up a small invoice from the counter. "That'll be one hundred and fifty dollars."

I looked at the piece of paper. "One fifty? The service is supposed to be ninety dollars for three hours. You know that."

"Ah, but this was an emergency call-out," she said smoothly. "Premium rates apply. Plus, I did some extra deep cleaning in the bathroom. You should be grateful."

I felt a surge of hot, familiar anger. It was the handbag scam all over again, just a different verse of the same song. She would never stop pushing, never stop trying to squeeze every last cent out of me.

"You're lying," I said, my voice flat. "There's no emergency rate. You're trying to overcharge me, again."

I pulled out my phone. "You know what? I'm going to call the agency right now and ask them about this 'emergency premium'."

Panic flared in her eyes, the same look she'd had when I'd looked up the price of the handbag. She snatched the invoice off the counter.

"No, no, that's alright!" she said quickly, crumpling the paper in her fist. "I must have misremembered. Ninety dollars is fine. Just a silly mistake."

"It wasn't a mistake," I said, not backing down. "It was another attempt at fraud. This is the third time, Mrs. Jenkins. First the condo, then the handbag, now this. It's a pattern of behavior."

I took a step closer, my eyes locked on hers. "You are a thief and a liar. And I'm done with it. If you ever, and I mean ever, set foot in this building again, I won't call the agency. I'll call the police and have you arrested for trespassing and harassment."

The threat hung in the air between us, heavy and final. For the first time, she seemed to understand that I was completely serious. The smugness vanished, replaced by a raw, ugly fear.

She didn't say a word. She grabbed her coat and purse and practically ran out the door, not even daring to look back.

I slammed the deadbolt home, my entire body humming with adrenaline. I immediately called the agency, and this time, I didn't hold back. I told the manager everything, from the extortion attempts to the repeated scams. She was horrified and apologetic, promising to terminate Mrs. Jenkins's contract permanently and launch a full investigation.

I felt a sense of relief, a feeling of finality. This time, I had cut her off at the source.

But the next evening, as I was leaving my building to meet a friend for dinner, I saw her. She was standing by the entrance of the complex, talking to a group of my neighbors, a few of the older, gossipy women from the building's social committee.

Mrs. Jenkins was crying, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. The women were patting her arm, looking at her with sympathy. As I walked past, I heard a snippet of their conversation.

"...kicked me out with nothing," Mrs. Jenkins was sobbing. "...after all I did for her. These young, rich tech people... no heart, no loyalty..."

One of the women looked up and saw me. Her friendly expression soured into a glare of pure disapproval.

My blood ran cold. Mrs. Jenkins hadn't just been fired. She had gone on the attack, just as she'd threatened. She was poisoning my community against me, painting me as a cruel, heartless monster. The fight wasn't over. It had just moved to a new, more public battlefield.