"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.

Rice, cooking oil, a rice cooker, and groceries. All sitting on my shelves now.

The surveillance footage was crystal clear. You could even make out the smug look on her face.

I stared at the screen for a good ten seconds, then closed the app.

Honestly, I went back and forth on whether to confront her.

But then I thought about it. All that stuff combined wasn't worth much.

Getting into another screaming match over a bag of rice and some cooking oil wasn't worth it either.

So I swallowed it. Again.

The next morning, I headed out for work. The garage door opened fine. Same passcode.

Busy day. I drove home that evening after work.

Pulled up to the garage door and punched in the code.

Red text flashed across the screen: Incorrect passcode. Please try again.

I entered it a second time.

Still wrong.

I stood there and took a long breath.

Pulled out my phone and texted Beryl: "Mrs. Chavez, why was the garage passcode changed again?"

Five minutes. No reply.

I sent another message: "You said three days to sort everything out. It's day two and the code's already been swapped. What's going on?"

Beryl finally sent back a voice message.

"How would I know? I never changed any passcode. Maybe you typed it wrong? Ask my daughter. She's the one who set it up for me."

Then she sent a phone number.

I stared at it for a few seconds, then dialed.

Seven or eight rings before someone picked up.

"Hello? Who's this?"

"Hi, I'm the resident in unit 802. Your mother borrowed my garage and changed the lock. Now the passcode's been changed again. I need you to come handle this."

Silence on the other end for a couple of seconds. "Oh. Well, just wait for me."

I asked how long.

She said she was on her way.

An hour passed. Nobody showed up.

The basement garage was damp and freezing. I was still in my work blouse and skirt, goosebumps crawling up my arms.

I called again.

This time it rang over a dozen times before she answered.

"Stop rushing me. I said I'm coming."

She hung up.

I waited another forty minutes.

It was fully dark outside now.

The motion-sensor lights in the garage flickered on one by one, casting that pale, washed-out glow across the concrete floor. Like a hospital corridor.

My stomach started growling. Whatever I'd eaten at the office around noon was long gone.

Finally, footsteps echoed from the elevator bay.

A woman stepped out. Brown-dyed hair, a designer bag dangling from her left hand, phone in her right.

She walked up to me, looked me over head to toe. "What's your problem? My mom said she gave you the passcode. Why do you keep saying you can't get in?"

"The passcode worked yesterday. It was changed today," I said.

"Changed? Who has time to sit around changing passcodes? You probably just remembered it wrong."

She rolled her eyes, walked to the garage door, and punched in a string of numbers.

The screen lit up. The lock clicked open.

I saw it plain as day. The passcode was different.

She turned to face me, not even trying to hide her irritation.

"Remember the code this time. And stop calling me every five minutes. I'm not your personal assistant."

She turned and left.

I parked the car and went upstairs, then realized I'd left my bag behind. So I headed back down to the garage.

What I didn't expect was to find Beryl and Manager Vance standing right outside the garage door.

"That little brat called again today. I sent my daughter to deal with her."

"I'll just wear her down. She'll get tired of it eventually and give up."

Damian kept his voice low. "Just don't let it blow up."

"What's there to worry about?" Beryl's voice ticked up a notch. "You and my daughter are practically family at this point. Don't tell me you can't do this one little thing for us."

"She's just some girl living alone. No man, no connections. What's she gonna do?"

"You see how scrawny she is? I raise my voice twice and she wilts."

"I've seen her type a hundred times. Push them around and they fold. Stand up to someone tough and they run."

Damian plastered on a smile. "Can't argue with that."

Beryl was practically glowing with satisfaction.

"I'm using the garage, I'm changing the locks, and there's not a damn thing she can do about it."

"Call the cops? Like they'd bother with something like this."

"Take me to court? Fine by me. I've got the chat logs as evidence, and between the first hearing and the appeal, we're talking a year or two of dragging it out. Think she can handle that?"

"Give it enough time and she'll wave the white flag all on her own."

I didn't stick around to hear the rest. I turned and walked away.

My hands were shaking the entire way back.

Not from fear. From rage.

It finally clicked.

Swallowing my pride and giving ground over and over again was never going to solve a thing.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled to a friend's number.

"Dick, I need a favor."

"Tonight. Bring me ten cases of liquor."

"The more expensive, the better."