Thirty Thousand Shortfall

I stared at the middle-aged woman with tight curls who had just barged through my door, demanding I pay her $30,000 to make up the difference.

All the excitement of finally buying a place vanished.

"Ma’am, volatility in housing prices is just how the market works," I said, keeping my voice as steady as I could. "The previous owner needed a quick sale, and I happened to catch it. That has nothing to do with you."

She stepped closer, her voice turning sharp. "How does it have nothing to do with me? Same layout, same building, so why did you pay $30,000 less than I did?"

Annoyance simmered under my skin. I remembered what the doctor told me when I was discharged—when conflict comes up, take a deep breath first, then reason it out.

I took a slow breath.

"For you, the market was at its peak when you bought your unit. When I bought mine, prices had dropped. That’s not on me. If we follow your logic, then if prices go up another $50,000 next year, are you going to pay me the difference?"

She planted her hands on her hips. "Don’t try to confuse me with all that nonsense! We live on the same floor. How can you feel okay taking advantage like that?

"My son’s getting married soon. We need the money. You bought it cheap, so you make up the difference! If you don’t fix this, don’t expect to live here in peace!"

I let out a short laugh, irritation bubbling over before I could respond.

She suddenly lunged toward my luggage, reaching straight for my bag. "Where’s the money? Hand it over. $30,000 and not a cent less!"

A flash of anger shot through me. How could someone be this unreasonable?

I was just about to pull out my phone and dial 911.

The moment she saw what I was doing, she spun around and headed back to her unit. As she left, she tossed over her shoulder, "If you don’t pay up, we’ll see how long you last here!"

I gave a cold laugh and ignored her, shutting the door behind me.

That afternoon, I went downstairs to Harper’s Corner Store to pick up some essentials.

Denise Harper, the owner in her fifties, scanned me up and down before asking, "You just moved in? Sixth floor?"

I nodded.

She glanced outside, then lowered her voice. "Linda Carver from 601 just posted in the resident group chat, saying you bought the place to run some kind of shady business."

I froze. "What?"

She sighed. "You got that apartment cheap. Their family can’t accept it."

She pulled up the chat and showed me. The messages were filthy.

Linda Carver: "@everyone, what do you reckon the woman who just moved into the 6th floor does for a living? I’ve lived for over fifty years. I know how to read people. What decent young woman lives alone in a place that expensive? You all know what that means."

"Now that you say it… Yeah, that’s suspicious. Where would such a young girl get that kind of money?"

"Those kinds of gigs out there pay fast."

"Don’t let her ruin the atmosphere of this place."

"Heard she’s not bad-looking. That makes it even more likely."

"Anyone got her contact? Just curious, haha, not gonna do anything."

Denise shook her head. "They drove out the last person who lived in your unit the same way. Even calling the police didn’t help. They won’t cross the line. They just make your life miserable every single day."

As she handed me my things, I asked her to add me to the group chat.