Chapter 4

Two weeks before my scheduled move to Seattle, my regular cleaning service sent a text saying they were overbooked and had to cancel. Frustrated, I called a different, smaller agency I found online. They promised to send someone over that afternoon.

I was on a work call in my home office when the buzzer rang. I buzzed them in without thinking, my mind still on the quarterly projections on my screen. A few minutes later, I walked out into the living room and froze.

It was Mrs. Jenkins. She was standing in the middle of my living room, duster in hand, looking around with a proprietary air.

A wave of fury washed over me. "What in the world are you doing here?"

She jumped, startled, then her expression settled into one of stubborn defiance.

"I'm here to clean," she said simply.

"I fired you. You are not allowed in my home. How did you even get this assignment?"

She looked away, feigning innocence. "The agency called me. They said they were in a bind and needed someone for a job in this building. I didn't know it was you until I got here."

It was a lie. I could see it in her eyes.

"I don't believe you," I said flatly. "But it doesn't matter. I am the client. I have the right to refuse service from anyone I choose. And I choose to refuse you. Please leave."

She bristled, her eyes narrowing.

"That's not very fair, is it? I came all this way. You're just going to send me home with nothing? That's not how it works. You have to pay for the booking."

"I will pay the agency their cancellation fee," I said through gritted teeth. "I will not pay you. Now, get out."

She didn't move. Instead, she named a price. "It's two hundred dollars for the four-hour slot."

I stared at her. "Two hundred? This agency quoted me one hundred and twenty."

"It's a last-minute booking," she said smoothly, the lie rolling off her tongue with practiced ease. "Premium rates apply."

This was the handbag incident all over again. The same petty, compulsive grifting. The constant testing of boundaries, the endless attempts to squeeze more out of me.

I was done playing games.

"You know what?" I said, pulling out my phone. "Let's just call the agency and confirm that 'premium rate'. I'm sure they'd be interested to hear that their fill-in cleaner is trying to upcharge a client by nearly double."

The color drained from her face. It was the same reaction as before. The threat of verification, of a third party exposing her lie, was her kryptonite.

"There's no need for that," she said quickly, her voice losing its confidence. "It... it must have been a misunderstanding. One-twenty is fine."

"No," I said, my voice cold and hard. "It's not fine. Nothing about this is fine. This is the second time you have tried to defraud me. The first time with the purse, and now this. You think I'm a fool? You think I'm just an endless source of money for you to skim from?"

Her face hardened again, the fear replaced by sullen anger. "It was a mistake."

"It wasn't a mistake, it was a pattern," I shot back, taking a step towards her. "You are a liar and a thief, Mrs. Jenkins. And I am done with it. You are going to leave my home right now, and if I ever see you again, if you ever contact me again, I will not just call the agency. I will go to the police and file a report for harassment and attempted fraud."

She looked genuinely scared now. The word 'police' had a power that 'lawyer' and 'agency' did not.

Without another word, she dropped the duster on the floor, grabbed her things, and practically fled from my apartment. I slammed the door behind her and immediately called the new agency.

I explained, in calm, clear terms, what had just happened. That the woman they sent, Mrs. Jenkins, was a former employee I had fired for cause, and that she had just attempted to defraud me. The manager on the other end was horrified and profusely apologetic. He promised to launch an internal investigation and assured me she would never be sent on another job by them again.

I felt a small sense of relief, of having taken concrete action. But as I walked through my quiet apartment, the relief faded, replaced by a growing sense of violation.

Later that evening, I went to take out the recycling. In the hallway, I ran into Mrs. Henderson, one of the neighborhood gossips from two floors down. She gave me a frosty look.

"I heard you threw your poor housekeeper out on the street again," she said, her voice dripping with disapproval. "Mrs. Jenkins was just telling us how you refuse to pay her properly. It's a shame, a young woman with so much money being so cheap."

My blood ran cold.

She was doing it. She was spreading rumors, poisoning my reputation in the community just as she had threatened. She wasn't just a thief; she was malicious. She was trying to isolate me, to turn my own neighbors against me. The conflict wasn't just about money anymore. It was a war, and she had just opened a new front.