"Plus fifty thousand in renovations. That's three hundred and seventy thousand total."
Beryl didn't even glance at the phone screen. She turned her face away.
Manager Vance looked, but only for a second before shifting his gaze elsewhere. "Ms. Simmons, the garage is yours, sure."
"But you did agree to lend it to Mrs. Chavez. That's also a fact."
I stared at him for two full seconds.
The man kept saying he was here to mediate, but every word out of his mouth was designed to muddy the waters.
I ignored him and turned to the locksmith. "Go ahead. Open it."
Eddie Pratt had barely reached for his tools when Beryl charged forward and threw herself against the garage door, her entire back pressed flat against it.
She spread both arms wide like a hen guarding her chicks. "I dare anyone to touch this!"
"I paid to install this lock! Anyone who lays a finger on it answers to me!"
Vance stepped in again, wearing that same placating smile.
"Ms. Simmons, look at the state Mrs. Chavez is in. If you force the lock open and something happens, it's going to be a headache for everyone."
"Let me talk her down first. You take a breather too, and we'll sort this out tomorrow. How's that sound?"
"Tomorrow?" I wasn't having it. "My car has nowhere to park tonight, and you want me to wait until tomorrow?"
"Just park outside for now. There are temporary spots out front, aren't there?"
"Temporary spots are six dollars an hour," I shot back. "You covering that?"
Vance's smile locked up. He had nothing to say.
That was when Beryl pulled out her phone, tapped the screen a few times, then held it up and played a voice message for both of us.
It was from our conversation that day.
"Alison, sweetie, you're lending me this garage for two years. Don't worry, I won't get it dirty."
Her accent was thick. In her mouth, "years" and "days" sounded almost identical.
It hit me all at once.
When she'd sent that message, she had slurred the words on purpose.
After the recording ended, Vance's whole demeanor shifted.
He turned to face me, and the look in his eyes was no longer that of a neutral mediator sizing up both parties.
"Ms. Simmons, you see? In this recording, you clearly agreed. The garage was lent to Mrs. Chavez, she said two years, and you didn't object."
"She's already installed a new lock and moved her things in. For you to suddenly come in and force the lock open, that's not really appropriate, is it?"
"I never agreed to two years," I said flatly. "I agreed to two days."
"Listen to the recording. Just listen." Vance pointed at the phone. "It's perfectly clear. Whether it's two years or one year, she asked, you gave her the passcode, and usage has already been established. That's just reality."
I almost laughed from the sheer absurdity. I held my temper by a thread. "Manager Vance, let me ask you one question."
"I paid three hundred and seventy thousand dollars for this garage. You think I'd just hand it over to someone else for two years? Does that make any sense to you?"
"She's not family. She's not a friend. She's just the neighbor one floor below me. Not a single dollar in rent. You honestly think a rational person would do something like that?"
Vance's mouth opened, then closed. He had no answer.
I kept going. "You're the property manager. You know better than anyone whose name is on this garage."
"She says she changed the lock, so it's her lock. She says two years, so it's two years. And you, the property manager, don't bother to verify a single thing. You hear one recording and you pick a side. You're really something, you know that?"
The color drained from Vance's face. The corner of his mouth twitched.
But just as quickly, he forced that smile back into place. "Ms. Simmons, let's not get emotional. I'm not picking sides. I'm simply going by the information available..."
"What information? You didn't look at the title deed. You didn't look at the contract."
"My property gets taken over, I come to property management, and property management does nothing."
