"Now I've got a locksmith here, and suddenly you jump in to tell me it's not appropriate?"
Manager Vance went quiet.
After a long pause, he put on a warm smile. "How about this, Alison? See if this works for you."
"Give Mrs. Chavez a few days to sort things out. Property management will oversee the whole thing, make sure the garage lock gets restored to how it was. What do you say?"
His tone was gentle, earnest even, like a mediator who genuinely had everyone's best interests at heart.
But I caught the look he snuck Beryl when he thought I wasn't watching.
Beryl had been holding her ground with her chin jutted out, but after that glance, she dialed it back a notch and kept her mouth shut.
I hesitated.
Honestly, I knew exactly what that look meant.
But I also knew that if I pushed this any further tonight, calling the cops would only get me a mediation session at best.
Property management would keep playing both sides, Beryl would throw a fit and drag things out until midnight, and my car still wouldn't be in that garage.
"Fine. Three days. She has three days to restore the lock and clear everything out of my garage."
Damian nodded eagerly. "Absolutely, absolutely. Property management will supervise the entire process. You have my word."
Beryl shot me a glare so venomous you'd think I owed her money.
She fished her phone out of her pocket, scrolled through it, and grudgingly rattled off a string of numbers.
I punched in the code. The screen lit up, and the lock clicked open.
Beryl didn't say another word. She turned and walked off.
Damian flashed me a smile. "Don't you worry, Alison. I'll handle this personally."
Then he left with the security guard in tow.
I turned to the locksmith.
"Eddie, I'm sorry you came out here for nothing."
"No worries, no worries."
He waved me off and bent down to pack up his toolbox.
I opened my phone and transferred him the $260 we'd agreed on.
He blinked. "I didn't even open the lock..."
"You made the trip out here and I wasted your time. It's only fair."
He looked at me for a second, then accepted the payment.
Then he lowered his voice.
"Alison, let me be straight with you. That old lady just now? She's not someone you want to take lightly. Watch yourself."
I told him I would, and thanked him.
He nodded, climbed onto his scooter, and rode off.
I pulled my car into the garage.
The headlights swept across the interior, and I froze.
The epoxy floor I'd had installed was still there. The motion-sensor lights I'd put in still worked. The wall-mounted shelving was still in place.
But everything on those shelves had changed.
The cases of water I'd stored up there were gone.
The folding chair in the corner was gone.
My toolbox was gone.
Even the two spare rain jackets I'd hung on the wall were gone.
In their place, the shelves were loaded with bags of rice, a jug of cooking oil, a beat-up rice cooker, and a few plastic bags stuffed with potatoes and onions.
I stood in the middle of the garage and looked around.
This wasn't my garage anymore.
The shell was still mine, technically. But everything inside it had been swapped out.
Then I remembered the camera.
Last year, when I'd renovated the garage, I'd paid to have a hidden one installed in the corner, the kind that synced to my phone.
I opened the surveillance app and scrolled back to the footage from three days ago.
There was Beryl, walking into the garage with two men.
Both wore gray work coveralls. Movers she'd hired, most likely.
She stood in front of the shelving unit, pointing and directing.
The two men pulled everything off the shelves, every last item, and carried it all out.
Once they were done, Beryl led them back in with a load of her own things.
