Chapter 2

I didn't hear from Mr. Henderson for a week. I assumed, foolishly, that he had accepted the reality of the situation and moved on. I was busy with work and the logistics of my upcoming move, and the ugly confrontation began to fade from my mind. I hired a new cleaning service, a professional company with bonded and insured employees. I was done with informal arrangements.

Then, one evening, my doorbell rang. I wasn't expecting anyone. I looked through the peephole and my stomach dropped. It was Mr. Henderson. He was holding a small, greasy-looking paper bag.

I opened the door just a crack. "What do you want?"

He put on a pained, sorrowful expression. "Alex, I'm so sorry about the other day. I was upset. I said things I didn't mean," he said, his voice thick with fake regret. "I just wanted to apologize. I brought you some pastries. From that little bakery you like."

I eyed the bag with suspicion. I felt a mix of annoyance and wariness. He was trying to get back in my good graces, but for what purpose?

"There's no need for that, Mr. Henderson," I said coolly. "What's done is done. I've hired a new service."

"I know, I know," he said, pushing the bag toward me. "This isn't about the job. It's just... I felt bad. Please, just take them."

Against my better judgment, I took the bag. It was a mistake. The moment my fingers closed around it, his demeanor changed. The fake apology vanished, replaced by a look of business-like expectation.

"Great," he said, his voice suddenly brisk. "Now, about the money for the special cleaning supplies."

I paused, the bag hanging from my hand. "What are you talking about? What special supplies?"

"The ones I bought last month," he said, sounding impatient. "For the marble floors. You know, the expensive stuff you wanted. I paid for it out of my own pocket. I forgot to bill you for it before... well, you know."

I searched my memory. I had never requested any special supplies. I always told him to just use standard products. A warning bell went off in my head.

"I don't recall authorizing any special purchases," I said slowly. "How much was it?"

"Two hundred dollars," he said without blinking.

My eyes narrowed. "Two hundred dollars? For cleaning supplies? That's an outrageous amount. Do you have a receipt?"

His face soured immediately. The friendly neighbor act was completely gone.

"A receipt?" he scoffed, his voice rising. "You don't trust me? After five years, you're asking me for a receipt? I treated this place like my own, and you're nickel-and-diming me over a few bottles of cleaner?"

He was trying to make me feel guilty, to put me on the defensive. It was the same manipulative tactic he'd used before. But I wasn't falling for it this time.

"It has nothing to do with trust, Mr. Henderson," I said, my voice firm. "It has to do with a two-hundred-dollar expense that I never approved. If you want me to reimburse you, you need to provide proof of purchase. That's standard practice for any expense."

He sputtered, flustered. "I... I don't have it with me. It's at home."

"Then go home and get it," I said, "and bring it back. Or text me a picture of it. Until then, I'm not paying you anything."

He stared at me, his jaw working. He was trapped. He knew there was no receipt because there was no two-hundred-dollar purchase. He was just trying to squeeze more money out of me, one last time.

"You know," he grumbled, changing the subject, "it was a real hassle. I had to go to three different stores to find that specific brand you like."

"I don't have a specific brand I like," I countered flatly. "I told you any major brand was fine. You're lying to me, Mr. Henderson."

He flinched as if I'd slapped him. "I am not lying!"

"Then show me the receipt," I repeated. "It's very simple."

He stood there, fuming, his mind clearly racing for another angle. Finally, he seemed to deflate. He shuffled his feet and wouldn't meet my eye.

"Okay, fine," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. "It wasn't two hundred."

"How much was it, then?" I pressed.

He mumbled something I couldn't hear.

"What was that?"

"Twenty dollars!" he snapped, his face turning red with humiliation and anger. "It was twenty dollars! Are you happy now? You made me beg over a measly twenty dollars!"

The confirmation of his blatant attempt at fraud filled me with a cold fury. He was trying to scam me for ten times the actual amount.

"A 'measly' twenty dollars?" I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "You tried to defraud me of one hundred and eighty dollars and you call the real amount 'measly'? You see no problem with that? No problem with lying to my face?"

He just glared at me, speechless.

"You're not just greedy," I said, my disgust total. "You're a common thief."

I stepped back and reached for my wallet. I pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. I didn't want him to have any excuse to ever contact me again.

"Here," I said, holding it out to him. "Here's your twenty dollars."

He snatched the bill from my hand. He looked like he wanted to say something else, to curse me out, but my expression must have stopped him.

Then I did something that gave me a small measure of satisfaction. I held up the paper bag he had given me.

"And you can have your pastries back," I said. "I've lost my appetite."

I dropped the bag on the floor at his feet. It landed with a soft thud. He stared down at it, then back up at me, his eyes burning with impotent rage. He then turned and stormed away down the hall without another word. I watched him go, then closed and locked my door, feeling a profound sense of relief to be rid of him, but also a growing unease. A man that dishonest and that desperate was capable of anything.