I met Leona tonight. That’s who’s been taking care of Charlotte. She’s a character—one of those women who’s seen too much, but not enough to stop talking about it. Her building smells like bleach and cigarette smoke, the kind that clings to old wallpaper and older memories. The hallway lights flicker just enough to make you think they’re blinking at you, like they know something you don’t.
Leona opened her door halfway, one eye peering through the gap. “You with the exterminator or the company?” she asked. Her tone had all the suspicion of a cat guarding an empty bowl. I told her I was just here to talk about Charlotte, that I’d heard she’d been housing her during the infestation. She swung the door open then, the chain rattling like an afterthought. Inside, her apartment was neat but tired—lace curtains, a dusty clock that had stopped keeping time, and a couch that had seen more conversations than comfort.
She motioned for me to sit, and I did. The cushion hissed under my weight. “Seventeen years I’ve lived here,” she said, lighting a cigarette with a hand that trembled just slightly. “Never had bedbugs. Never even seen one. But you get a letter from management, and suddenly the whole place is crawling. They bring in these men with masks, tanks on their backs—like soldiers. And they charge you for it, of course. Every time.”
I nodded, pretending to understand her thoughts as more than just madness, though I was really watching her eyes. They flicked toward the window when she mentioned “management.” There was fear there, the kind that doesn’t come from bugs.
“They say Charlotte had ‘em bad,” she went on. “But Charlotte’s clean. Always has been. They took her stuff. Hauled it right out. Said it was for her safety.” Leona leaned closer. “You wanna know what I think? I think it’s a money-making scheme. They invent the problem, sell you the solution, and toss out anyone who can’t pay.” She said it like a joke, but her laugh came out hollow.
I could smell the smoke, the faint sweetness of her perfume struggling beneath it. Outside, the street was quiet, the kind of quiet that presses in on you, makes you hear things you shouldn’t. I asked her if she’d seen anyone unusual around lately. Her smile vanished. “You think I don’t notice when they come around?” she whispered. “Late at night. Same van. No logos. They don’t knock—they slide in with keys that ain’t theirs. Maybe to spray. Maybe not.” She crushed her cigarette in the ashtray.
“Charlotte could be a problem, that’s why they wanted her gone. For a moment, the room felt smaller. The hum of the refrigerator filled the silence between us. I looked at the framed photo on the table—Leona and a young girl, both smiling in the sunlight. The glass had a fine crack running through it.
“Be careful who you talk to,” she said, her voice barely a breath. “They don’t like people noticing patterns.”
I left her apartment with Charlotte in her cat carrier; the weight of her warning clinging to me like the scent of her smoke. Down the hall, a maintenance man watched me go—no name tag, no smile. Just a nod. Maybe Leona’s crazy. Maybe she’s right.