I Thought My Housekeeper Was Stealing—Then Her Bag Fell Open on My Marble Floor

Hannah snatched the notice from my hand.

“That’s private.”

“You’re right.” I stood and gave it back. “But I recognize the address.”

Her expression hardened. “A lot of people know Lakeview Terrace.”

Lakeview Terrace sounded nicer than it was. Six brick buildings on the west side, built in the seventies, bought and sold so many times the tenants rarely knew who was collecting their rent from one year to the next.

I had seen the name in acquisition reports.

“Is your heat working?” I asked.

She gave a short laugh with no humor in it. “Sometimes.”

“In this weather?”

“Space heaters.”

“With two kids?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me like I’m a problem you can solve before breakfast.”

That shut me up.

Hannah pushed the last container into the bag and stood. “I’m not asking you for money.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You were about to.”

She was right.

So I tried again. “What happened with the rent?”

“The rent went up. Then they added fees. Then another fee because they said we paid the first fee late.”

“That sounds illegal.”

“It sounds normal when nobody returns your calls.”

I offered her a ride home because the rain had turned to ice. She refused until she looked at her shoes, then at the storm.

In the car, she sat as far from me as the back seat allowed.

When we reached Lakeview Terrace, half the exterior lights were dead. A child’s bicycle was chained to a railing under a broken security camera. One lobby window had cardboard taped over a crack.

Hannah opened the door.

“Thank you for the ride.”

“Hannah.”

She paused.

“I’m going to check something about this building.”

Her jaw tightened. “Please don’t make my life worse because you feel guilty.”

Then she disappeared inside.

I called my estate manager, Sam Rivera, before the car moved.

“I need the ownership records for Lakeview Terrace.”

“At ten at night?”

“Yes.”

He sighed. “Give me twenty minutes.”