Chapter 3

A few weeks passed. I'd hired a new cleaning service, a company that sent a different person each time. It was less personal, which suited me just fine after the fiasco with Mrs. Jenkins. I was in the middle of packing, sorting through years of accumulated belongings, when the new cleaner, a woman named Maria, finished up for the day.

As I was paying her, Mrs. Jenkins appeared in my hallway as if summoned from a nightmare. She must have been waiting outside, watching for the cleaner to leave.

My stomach dropped. "What are you doing here?"

She ignored me completely and walked over to a box I had just packed. It was filled with designer clothes I was planning to donate. She started rummaging through it, her expression one of intense concentration.

"What are you doing?" I repeated, my voice sharp. "Those are not for you."

She pulled out a silk blouse, holding it up against herself. "This would look nice on my Emily," she said, not to me, but to the air. "And these shoes. Her size."

She began to systematically go through the box, pulling out items and placing them into a large tote bag she had brought with her.

I was stunned by the sheer audacity. She was in my home, uninvited, shopping through my possessions.

"Stop that right now," I said, stepping between her and the box. "Put those back. You can't just take my things."

She looked at me then, her eyes full of scorn. "You're just going to give them away," she said, as if that made it okay. "Why not give them to someone who deserves them? Someone who has served you faithfully."

"I decide who I give my things to," I snapped, my anger flaring. "And you are not on that list. Put them back. Now."

She clutched the tote bag to her chest protectively. "You're so selfish. So stingy. It's just old clothes to you. It means nothing."

"It's my property!" I yelled, my voice echoing in the half-empty apartment. "And you are trespassing! If you do not put my things back and leave my apartment this instant, I am calling the police."

She scoffed. "Always threatening, aren't you? So high and mighty."

She didn't move. She just stood there, defiant, clutching the bag of my clothes.

That was it. I had reached my limit.

"You seem to be confused about our relationship, Mrs. Jenkins," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerously calm level. "You were an employee. A contractor. Just like the woman from the cleaning service who just left. Do you see her trying to walk out of here with my belongings? No. Because she understands professional boundaries. Something you seem completely incapable of."

I pulled out my phone. "I used a service to hire my cleaners. I think it's time I call them and let them know that a former, independent contractor I once used is now harassing me and attempting to steal from me. I'm sure they have a record of you."

Her eyes widened in panic. Being blacklisted by the agencies and services that connected domestic workers with wealthy clients in this city would be a professional death sentence.

"You wouldn't," she breathed.

"Try me," I said, my thumb hovering over the call button.

For a long, tense moment, she just stared at me, her face a storm of rage and hate. Then, with a cry of frustration, she shoved the tote bag at me, the clothes spilling onto the floor.

"Fine! Keep your precious junk!" she screamed. "I hope you're happy, all alone in your big, empty apartment with all your things! I hope you get what you deserve!"

Her face was contorted with malice. "You'll get yours, Sarah Miller. You'll see. People like you always do."

It wasn't a threat, it was a curse. It hung in the air between us, ugly and twisted.

I didn't say another word. I just stood there, my phone in my hand, and watched her.

She gave me one last look of pure loathing, then turned and stormed out of my apartment, slamming the door behind her for the third and, I prayed, final time.

I sank down onto one of the packed boxes, my body trembling with adrenaline and rage. I looked at the pile of my clothes on the floor, feeling violated.

This isn't over, I thought. She won't let this be over. The thought sent a chill through me, even in the warm apartment. I thought the conflict was finally done, but a small, persistent voice in my head told me I was wrong.