Chapter 4

The move was a nightmare of logistics, but I finally got everything packed. For the final, post-move-out deep clean, I was adamant about using a different service. I called a highly-rated, more expensive company and explicitly told them about my previous issues, requesting they not subcontract the work. They assured me they only used their own vetted employees.

On the day of the clean, I arrived at the empty apartment to let the crew in. I opened the door, and my jaw tightened. Standing there, wearing the uniform of this new company, was Mr. Henderson.

He had the gall to look surprised to see me. "Alex! What a coincidence."

"This isn't a coincidence," I said, my voice flat. "I specifically told your company not to send you." Obviously, that message hadn't been passed down, or he had lied to get the job.

"Look, I need the work," he said, his tone shifting to a whine. "My other company let me go. Because of you."

"They let you go because you're a thief," I corrected him. "You are not setting foot in this apartment. Leave. Now."

I tried to close the door, but he put his foot in the way.

"You can't do this," he pleaded. "Just let me do the job. I'll be good. I promise."

"The time for promises is over," I said, pushing against the door. "Get your foot out of my door before I call the police."

He seemed to realize I was serious. He pulled his foot back, but his expression hardened into one of resentment.

"Fine," he said. "But you still have to pay the cancellation fee."

"There is no cancellation fee if the service sends a person I specifically banned from my property," I argued.

"The company needs to get paid for my time coming out here," he insisted. He then pulled a crumpled invoice from his pocket. "It's three hundred dollars."

I laughed out loud. It was a bitter, humorless sound. "Three hundred dollars? For driving here? The entire cleaning was only supposed to be four hundred."

"It's a premium service," he said, puffing out his chest. "Emergency call-out fee. Travel time." He was just making things up.

"I know for a fact your company's standard call-out fee is fifty dollars," I shot back. I had done my research this time.

His face fell. He knew I had him. He was trying the same overcharging scam again, hoping I wouldn't know any better.

"Just give me the money," he said, his voice dropping. "Don't make this a problem."

"I'm not giving you a cent," I said. "In fact, I'm going to call your manager right now and tell them that you are attempting to extort a client."

I pulled out my phone and started looking up the number. Panic flashed in his eyes.

"No, wait!" he said, grabbing my arm. I shook him off, disgusted.

"Don't touch me."

"Okay, okay!" he said quickly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "One hundred dollars. Just give me one hundred and I'll leave, I won't tell the company you cancelled. We can forget this ever happened."

The fact that he so quickly dropped his price from three hundred to one hundred was all the proof I needed.

"The only person I'm going to be talking to is your boss," I said, my finger hovering over the call button. "You are a fraud, and you are a liability. You tried to charge me six times the actual fee."

"Please," he begged, his bravado gone, replaced by a sniveling fear. He was swallowing hard, his eyes wide. "Don't. I'll lose this job too. I have a family to support."

"You should have thought of that before you decided to become a con artist," I said coldly. "Get out of my sight."

He didn't need to be told a third time. He practically ran down the hallway. I immediately called the cleaning company's main office and spoke to a regional manager. I explained everything – Henderson's past behavior, my specific request not to have him, his appearance anyway, and his attempt to extort me for a fake fee.

The manager was horrified and extremely apologetic. He promised me Henderson would be fired immediately and that they would launch an internal investigation. He also sent a different, trusted crew over within the hour, free of charge.

I thought that would be the end of it. But a few days later, as I was doing a final walkthrough with my real estate agent, one of my old neighbors stopped me in the hall.

"Hey," she said, looking uncomfortable. "I heard you're finally leaving. Good thing, too. I heard some nasty stuff about you."

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"Oh, you know," she said vaguely. "Your old cleaner, the nice old man? He was telling everyone you refused to pay him for his work, that you threw him out on the street for no reason. Said you were a cheap, cruel person."

My blood ran cold. He wasn't just trying to scam me anymore. He was actively trying to ruin my reputation, spreading malicious lies in the community where I had lived for years.

The full scope of his vindictiveness was finally clear. This wasn't just about money. It was about a twisted sense of revenge.

After the agent left, I stayed behind to grab one last box of personal items I'd left in a closet. The apartment was empty, silent, and clean. It felt sterile, no longer my home. As I was about to lock the door for the very last time, I heard a noise from the master bedroom. A soft snoring sound.

My heart leaped into my throat. The cleaning crew had left hours ago. The apartment was supposed to be empty.

I slowly pulled my phone out of my pocket, my thumb hovering over the 9-1-1 icon. I crept toward the bedroom door, pushing it open an inch.

On my bed, or rather, on the floor where my bed used to be, was a sleeping bag. And in it, a man I had never seen before in my life was fast asleep.