Sabrina, in contrast, took root in my house with surprising ease.
She managed the groceries. Then the organization. Then the mail.
Then the bills.
“Let me help, Leonard,” she would say, all gentle smiles and polished tone.
One evening, as a retirement-planning commercial played on TV, Sabrina said casually:
“Your life insurance is around six hundred fifty thousand, right?”
I hadn’t told her that number.
Something inside me tightened.
But I brushed it off as a coincidence—a mistake I now see as the first slip in a very long unraveling.
The Invitation That Didn’t Add Up
Three months later, she appeared in my doorway with the brightest smile I had ever seen on her.
“Leonard, how would you feel about a trip to Las Vegas? Just us. A little long weekend. My treat.”
Her treat.
A woman with no job for months.
A woman living in my home.
A woman whose bank account, as far as I knew, held no income.
Mark stood behind her with his hands deep in his pockets. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“It could be fun,” he said. “Like old times.”
We’d never had old times in Las Vegas.
Sabrina showed me the flights on her phone. Booked. Hotel reserved.
Everything arranged before I even said yes.