Chapter 3

The final straw in that phase was when I got a call from Mrs. Henderson, our nosy downstairs neighbor.

"Sarah, dear, there' s a woman, rather flamboyant, shall we say, who' s been asking the building manager some very pointed questions about your apartment."

My blood ran cold. "What kind of questions?"

"Oh, about the layout, which way the windows face, that sort of thing, and she was very interested in the vacant unit directly across the hall from you."

"Vacant unit?" I repeated, a horrible suspicion forming.

"Yes, 2B, it just came up for rent last week, lovely little one-bedroom."

I hung up and immediately called the building manager.

He confirmed it. Brenda, using the name "Lila LaRue," had signed a lease for apartment 2B that very morning. She was moving in tomorrow.

Directly across the hall.

I felt a wave of claustrophobia. There would be no escape.

"She' s moving in across the hall," I told Mike that evening.

He stared at me, his face losing color. "No, she can' t be."

"She is, she signed the lease today."

"But... why? How?"

"Because she' s obsessed, Mike, and she' s escalating."

He sank onto the couch. "I can' t deal with this, Sarah, I just can' t, it' s like a nightmare."

I knew I had to do something more. Tolerating it wasn' t working. Confronting her directly only gave her a stage.

I called Jessica.

"Jess, Brenda is moving into the apartment across the hall from us."

Silence on the other end. Then, a long, weary sigh.

"Oh, Sarah, I am so, so sorry."

"Sorry isn' t going to cut it, Jessica," I said, my voice tight. "You need to handle your mother-in-law."

"Handle her? Sarah, how? David and I have tried, she doesn' t listen to anyone, she' s in her own world, she thinks she' s a movie star and Mike is her long-lost love, what am I supposed to do, have her committed?"

Her voice was rising, bordering on hysterical.

"She' s making our lives a living hell, Jess, Mike is a wreck."

"I know, I know, she' s difficult, she makes my life hell too, always has, you have no idea."

Complaining, always complaining, but never doing anything. I was tired of it.

"Okay," I said, a sudden, cold clarity forming in my mind. "Okay, Jessica, I' ll handle it."

"You will? How?"

"Don' t worry about how, but you owe me, you owe me big time."

A new, high-end espresso machine had been sitting in my online shopping cart for weeks, the kind that frothed milk perfectly.

"That La Spaziale espresso machine I' ve been wanting? The red one?"

"The one that costs like, a grand?" Jessica shrieked.

"Consider it hazard pay for dealing with your mother, Jessica, because this is going to be ugly."

There was a long pause. I could hear her breathing.

"Fine," she finally said, her voice small. "Fine, if you can make her stop, I' ll get you the stupid machine."

"Good," I said. "Send me the tracking number."

A week later, the espresso machine arrived. It was beautiful.

I set it up on our kitchen counter, a gleaming red beacon of defiance.

I took a picture, the perfect foamy cappuccino in a clear glass mug beside it.

I posted it on Instagram.

"New toy! Thanks to my amazing sister, Jessica, for making my coffee dreams come true! 😉 #sisterlylove #caffeinefix #worthit"

Jessica didn' t like the post, but she didn' t comment.

Brenda moved in across the hall. The first night, she hummed loudly outside our door for an hour, old show tunes.

I made myself an excellent latte.

This was war, and I was arming myself, one espresso shot at a time.