Chapter 2
I had never seen Mr. Collins look frightened before.
Angry, yes.
Impatient, occasionally.
But never frightened.
Now he stood beside my front door, staring at the document in my hands as though a single sentence on that page could destroy his entire life.
I kept my phone recording.
"Start talking," I said.
He forced a laugh.
"This is getting ridiculous. Maya has misunderstood a private conversation."
"Then explain the document."
"It's a preliminary housing agreement."
"For whom?"
He didn't answer.
I unfolded the second page.
There were handwritten instructions about changing the locks, transferring access to the apartment, and arranging for the removal of personal belongings.
My belongings.
Maya's belongings.
The document also mentioned a payment that would be made after the apartment was vacated.
I read that line twice.
"Who was paying you to throw us out?"
Mr. Collins reached for the papers.
I pulled them away.
"Don't touch me."
His hand stopped in midair.
"I have every legal right to manage my property."
"And I have every right to know why you're preparing documents with someone else's signature while threatening my daughter."
His jaw tightened.
Then Maya spoke.
"He told me the person wanted our apartment."
Mr. Collins turned toward her.
"Be quiet."
Maya recoiled.
I stepped between them so quickly that my shoulder struck his chest.
"Don't you ever speak to my child like that again."
He stared at me for several seconds.
Then he straightened his cardigan and tried another approach.
"Renee, I think we should discuss this calmly. You're exhausted. You've been working too much, and your daughter is clearly upset."
I almost laughed.
He had frightened my daughter in her own home, and now he wanted to make me believe exhaustion was the problem.
I had worked twelve-hour shifts at a medical billing office for nearly six years. I knew what exhaustion felt like.
This wasn't exhaustion.
This was the feeling of discovering that someone had been standing inside your life, quietly moving the walls while you weren't looking.
I pointed toward the door.
"Leave."
He glanced at the papers.
"Those documents belong to me."
"Then you can explain to the police why they were in my apartment."
His face changed again.
"You wouldn't do that."
I looked directly into his eyes.
"Try me."
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he opened the door.
Before stepping outside, he turned toward Maya.
"You should think carefully about what happens when people make accusations they can't prove."
I moved forward.
"Get out."
He left.
I locked the door behind him and checked the deadbolt twice.
Then I turned off the recording.
My hands were shaking so badly that I nearly dropped my phone.
Maya stood beside the couch, staring at the floor.
I wanted to hug her.
I wanted to demand every detail.
I wanted to go after Mr. Collins and make him explain why he had frightened the child I had spent nineteen years protecting.
Instead, I took a breath.
"Come sit with me."
She shook her head.
"Mom, I'm sorry."
Those three words hurt more than anything else that had happened.
"Why are you apologizing?"
"Because I should have told you."
I crossed the room and gently took her hands.
"Baby, you didn't do anything wrong."
"He said you would lose your job if I told you."
My expression hardened.
"What?"
"He said he knew where you worked. He said he could tell people you were stealing money from your employer. He said nobody would believe us if we accused him of anything."
I felt sick.
My daughter had been carrying that threat alone because she believed protecting me meant staying silent.
I pulled her into my arms.
"You listen to me, Maya. No job, no apartment, and no amount of money is worth you being afraid in your own home."
She began sobbing against my shoulder.
I held her until her breathing slowed.
Then I asked the question I had been afraid to ask.
"How long has this been happening?"
She wiped her face.
"Almost two months."
Two months.
For nearly sixty days, I had kissed my daughter goodbye every morning, driven to work, answered billing disputes, and returned home believing we were safe.
Meanwhile, she had been listening for keys in the lock.
"He usually comes on Tuesdays and Thursdays," she continued. "Sometimes on Saturdays."
I remembered those days.
I usually worked late on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Saturdays were when I picked up extra hours.
He had chosen his visits carefully.
"What does he do when he comes?"
"At first, he checked the smoke detector and the pipes. Then he started asking about you. He wanted to know when you got paid, whether you had savings, and whether you planned to move."
My stomach tightened.
"What did you tell him?"
"Nothing important. I thought he was just being nosy."
She paused.
"Then he started bringing papers."
"What papers?"
"Forms with your name on them. He wanted me to sign something saying you had agreed to leave the apartment."
I stared at her.
"Did you sign anything?"
"No."
The answer came quickly.
Then she looked away.
"Maya?"
She swallowed.
"I signed one paper because he said it was only confirming that he'd inspected my bedroom."
My heart sank.
"Did you read it?"
"He wouldn't let me keep it. He said it was routine."
I closed my eyes briefly.
My daughter had been manipulated by a man who understood exactly how to make himself sound reasonable.
I opened them again.
"Do you remember what it looked like?"
She described a white page with a blue header and a line for her signature.
I glanced at the envelope.
There was a blue mark in its upper corner.
This was no longer just a frightening visit.
Someone had prepared a plan.
Someone had collected information about our lives.
And someone had convinced my daughter to sign a document without explaining what it meant.
I photographed every page and sent copies to my personal email.
Then I called the local tenant assistance office and requested an appointment.
The woman who answered listened carefully before telling me to preserve the original documents and avoid signing anything else.
I wrote down her instructions.
Afterward, I called my supervisor and requested the next morning off.
I was done pretending that everything could wait until my next day off.
As I returned to the living room, Maya was standing beside the window.
"Mom?"
"Yes, baby?"
She looked at me with red, frightened eyes.
"There's something else."
I walked toward her.
"What is it?"
She pointed toward the front door.
"He told me the person who wants our apartment already knows where we sleep."
I stared at her.
May you like
Then she whispered the words that made the blood drain from my face.
"He said that person was family."
