Simone Lawson woke up to the sound of her alarm and for a few seconds couldn’t figure out where she was. The empty half of the bed reminded her that the divorce had been finalized three months ago. The apartment belonged only to her now, and Darnell had moved in with his new flame. At thirty-five years old, her life felt split into a “before” and an “after.”
There had been twelve years of marriage, shared plans, joint trips to his parents’ place outside the city, where she dutifully weeded the garden while he drank beer with his friends. After all that, there was just this empty apartment, the silence, and the necessity of starting over.
She got up, pulled on her robe, and went to the kitchen. The kettle boiled fast, the only thing in the entire apartment that worked flawlessly. Simone made herself coffee, looked out the window at the gray April city of Atlanta, and sighed.
Welcome to Betty’s Stories. I share new life stories here every day, and I’d really appreciate it if you hit subscribe and liked my video. Now, let’s jump back into my story. I’m sure you’ll love it if you keep listening till the end.
Today was Monday, which meant a full week ahead at the small accounting office for a private firm called Prime Solutions Group. It was a grand name for a business of only five people cramped into two rooms on the third floor of an old commercial building downtown. She had found the job through her friend Sierra, who knew someone who knew someone else. After the divorce, Simone desperately needed money for the lawyer, for utility bills, and for life in general.
She’d had to leave her previous position at a large retail company. Her colleagues asked too many questions, gave her too many pitying looks. All she wanted was to forget everything and start fresh. Here at Prime Solutions, no one knew her story, and that was a relief.
The director, Victor Sterling, a man in his fifties with a receding hairline and a perpetually dissatisfied expression, hired her without asking too many questions. He looked at her degree, heard about her experience, nodded, and named a salary. Nothing spectacular, but acceptable. Simone agreed right away.
The work turned out to be straightforward: processing documents, preparing reports, and keeping track of income and expenses. Nothing complicated for someone with fifteen years of experience. Simone finished her coffee, got dressed, and left the apartment exactly at eight in the morning.
The commute to the office took forty minutes: ten minutes walking to the MARTA station, twenty minutes on the train, and another ten minutes to the building itself. It was the familiar route she had been taking every weekday for two and a half months. Leaving her building, Simone turned right and walked down the narrow street toward the station entrance.
There, right by the door, sitting on a beat-up piece of cardboard, was an elderly woman. Simone had noticed her on the very first day of her new job. The old woman never begged loudly, never whined, and never reached out her hand. She just sat there wrapped in a faded coat with a small tin cup in front of her. The cardboard sign, crookedly written, said, “Please help.”
Simone didn’t consider herself particularly tender-hearted, but something about this old woman evoked pity. Maybe it was her weary gaze, or the way she sat so quietly without expectation, as if she had already resigned herself to her fate. From that first day, Simone began tossing her loose change—three dollars, a five, whatever she had in her pocket.
The old woman would always nod, mumbling, “Thank you, dear.” And Simone would walk on.
This continued for two months. Every morning, the same scene: the old woman in her spot, Simone dropping coins, a quick exchange of glances, and then off to work. Sometimes they exchanged a few words, and that’s how they got to know each other. The old woman’s name was Ms. Thelma May Jenkins. She was seventy-nine years old. She lived somewhere nearby, but she couldn’t stay home, as she vaguely explained.
Simone didn’t press for details. Everyone has their own story. If a person doesn’t want to share, there must be a reason.
This Monday morning, Simone paused again by the old woman. The change in her jeans pocket jingled—about three dollars in coins. She leaned down, reached toward the cup, and suddenly felt her wrist seized by dry but surprisingly strong fingers.
Simone snapped her head up. Ms. Jenkins was looking at her from below, and her eyes held something anxious, almost frightened.
“Listen to me, dear,” the old woman whispered without letting go of her hand. “Don’t go home tonight. You hear me? Under no circumstances.”
Simone tried to pull her hand away, but the grip was firm.
“What, Ms. Jenkins? What are you talking about?”
“Sleep somewhere else. A hotel, a friend’s place, anywhere but home. Promise me.”
The old woman’s voice trembled, and her eyes shone with a strange glint. Simone felt a chill run down her spine. People rushed past them, hurrying to work, no one paying any attention.
“Ms. Jenkins, are you serious? What happened?”
The old woman released her hand and leaned back against the wall.
“Come here tomorrow morning. I’ll show you everything. But don’t go home tonight. You’ve done so much good for me. Let me repay you. Listen to an old woman.”
Simone stood up straight, staring at Ms. Jenkins, confused. The old woman turned away as if the conversation was over. Passersby continued to stream past. Someone tossed a coin into the cup, and the old woman routinely nodded, making a sign of the cross.
Simone stood for a few more seconds, then turned and walked toward the MARTA entrance. Her thoughts were a jumble.
What was that? Senile rambling or something serious? Maybe Ms. Jenkins had heard or seen something. But what exactly? And why today of all days?
All the way to the office, Simone replayed the strange conversation in her head. Entering the commercial building, she took the elevator to the third floor and pushed open the door marked “Prime Solutions Group.”
Kayla, the secretary, a young woman in her twenties who spent most of her time on her phone, sat in the reception area.
“Hey,” Kayla mumbled without looking up from the screen.
“Hey,” Simone replied and walked into her tiny office.
The workday began as usual. Invoices, packing slips, reconciliation reports. The routine usually calmed her, but today it didn’t help. The old woman’s words echoed insistently in her head.
Don’t go home. Sleep somewhere else.
Around noon, Simone decided to take a break and went out into the hall to get water from the cooler. There, she ran into the security guard, Kevin Barnes, a man in his forties with a square jaw and a short buzzcut. He had only been working here for about a month and a half, and Simone rarely spoke to him, except to say good morning.
“It’s hot today,” Kevin remarked, walking up to the cooler after her.
“Yeah, spring came early this year,” Simone nodded, pouring water into her cup.
Kevin filled his cup and suddenly asked, “Say, what part of town do you live in?”
The question caught her off guard. Simone tensed up.
“Why do you ask?”
“Oh, just curious. Is it a long commute?”
“It’s fine. The train is close by.” She avoided giving her address. Something about the question felt strange.
Kevin nodded, drank his water, and returned to his spot near the entrance. Simone remained in the hallway, holding the cup and watching him go. Why was he suddenly interested in where she lived? They barely ever talked before, and his sudden interest felt suspicious.
Back in her office, Simone tried to focus on her work, but her thoughts kept returning to the morning’s conversation with Ms. Jenkins. By lunchtime, she had almost convinced herself it was all ridiculous—the fantasies of an elderly woman—and she shouldn’t pay attention. But the anxiety wouldn’t let go.
At three in the afternoon, Victor Sterling came in. The director looked preoccupied, holding a folder of documents.
“Simone, I have a question for you,” he began, pulling up a chair opposite her desk. “These invoices for March. Did you verify them?”
Simone took the folder and flipped through the documents. They were standard statements of work performed, which she had processed the previous month.
“Yes, I did. Why? What’s wrong?”
“There are no client signatures on three of the statements. Did you see them?”
Simone frowned, looking closely at the documents. Victor was right. Three statements were missing the client’s signature. That was strange. She always checked things like that.
“No, I didn’t notice that. When I received them, the signatures were there. I remember because I specifically cross-referenced them with the ledger.”
The director rubbed the back of his neck.
“Hmm. All right. Maybe I’m confusing things. Thanks.”
He left, and Simone sat there staring at the closed door. Something was definitely not right. She clearly remembered checking those statements, and the signatures had been in place. Could she have made a mistake? Unlikely. With fifteen years as an accountant, she had learned to be meticulous.
The rest of the day passed under tension. Simone caught herself listening for sounds outside her door several times, jumping at footsteps in the hall. When the clock finally hit six, she gathered her things and left the office.
It was dark outside and the streetlights were on. Simone walked toward the MARTA on autopilot, following her usual route, but suddenly she stopped. Ms. Jenkins’s words: Don’t go home.
She stood in the middle of the sidewalk and people walked around her. What should she do? Listen to the old woman or decide it was just an old person’s oddity? But there was fear in Ms. Jenkins’s eyes. Real, genuine fear. And then there was Kevin’s strange question about where she lived and the incident with the invoices suddenly missing signatures.
Simone pulled out her phone, opened the browser, and started searching for cheap extended-stay hotels nearby. She found one not too far away. The price was acceptable. She booked a room for the night, paid with her card, and walked to the address.
The hotel was in an old building on a quiet street. The administrator, a sleepy young woman with pink hair, handed her an electronic key to a room for four. Simone went up to the second floor, opened the door, and saw two sets of bunk beds. The room was empty.
She dropped her bag on the bottom bunk, sat down, and stared at the wall. What was she doing? Why did she listen to some homeless old woman? Maybe she should have just gone home, gone to sleep, and forgotten about this strange day. But the anxiety wouldn’t leave her.
Simone took out her phone and texted her friend Sierra.
Sleeping away from home tonight. I’ll explain later.
Sierra replied a minute later.
Did you finally find a man?
Simone didn’t answer. She lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Outside, the city roared. Car horns blared somewhere, and she could hear the voices of passersby. Simone closed her eyes, trying to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come.
Her mind spun. Ms. Jenkins, her words, the strange question from Kevin the guard, the missing signatures on the invoices. She tried to build a logical chain. What if all this was connected? What if something illegal was happening at work and she had accidentally found out? But she didn’t know anything. She was just doing her job, processing documents, keeping records.
Suddenly, Simone sat up on the bed. What if they were using her? Maybe some fraudulent documents were passing through her hands and she simply hadn’t noticed. No, that was crazy. She was always careful, always double-checking everything. Though those invoices without signatures—how could they have passed through if she had checked them? Someone must have swapped them out. But why?
Around midnight, Simone finally drifted off. Her sleep was restless, full of fragmented images. She dreamed of the office, endless stacks of documents, and someone’s hands changing numbers and reports while her back was turned.
She woke up to a sudden sound. Her phone was vibrating on the nightstand next to the bed. Simone grabbed it and looked at the screen. Four in the morning. It was Sierra calling.
“Hello,” Simone mumbled, still half asleep.
“Simone, are you alive?” Sierra’s voice was full of panic.
“What? Of course I’m alive. What’s wrong?”
“Your building’s on fire. Sirens are screaming. It’s on the news. There’s a huge fire. Firefighters are there. Where are you?”
Simone sat up in bed, her heart pounding frantically.
“What? What did you say?”
“The fire is at your apartment building. Third and fourth floors. Were you home?”
“No, I… I’m at a hotel. I texted you.”
“Thank God. Simone, what is going on?”
Simone didn’t answer. She scrambled out of bed, quickly got dressed, grabbed her jacket, dropped the electronic key on the desk, and bolted out the hotel door. She rushed down the stairs, burst onto the street, and called a rideshare. She gave the address of her apartment building and the car sped through the night city.
All the way, Simone stared out the window, unable to believe what was happening. A fire at her building. Her building. Her floor. She was supposed to be there, in her apartment on the fourth floor. The driver said something, but she couldn’t hear him. All she could see was Ms. Jenkins’s face and hear her words: Don’t go home.
The car pulled up to her building and Simone saw the flashing lights of the fire trucks, a crowd of people, and smoke billowing into the sky. She got out and slowly walked closer. The fourth floor—her floor—was engulfed in flames. Firefighters aimed hoses, water poured down in torrents, but the fire raged.
Simone stood frozen, unable to move. Neighbors huddled nearby. Someone was crying. Someone else was on the phone. She recognized a few people: old Mr. Peterson from the fifth floor, the young family with twins from the second. Everyone was in shock.
“Simone!” someone called her name.
It was Mrs. Miller, her downstairs neighbor, a woman in her sixties.
“You’re safe. Thank God. We thought you were home.”
“No. I spent the night at a friend’s,” Simone lied automatically.
“What a blessing. Your apartment… everything is burnt up in there. The Greens’ place, too. They barely got out. They took them to the hospital with burns.”
Simone nodded, speechless. Her apartment, everything she had—furniture, documents, clothes, books she had collected for years—all gone. But she was alive. If it hadn’t been for Ms. Jenkins…
She pulled out her phone, her hands trembling, and checked the time. Six in the morning, still early. Ms. Jenkins had said to come in the morning, so she had to wait for the sun to rise and go to her. The old woman had promised to explain everything.
Simone moved away from the crowd, leaned against a neighboring building, and closed her eyes. The fire today. Her apartment. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
Dawn broke slowly. The sky turned from pink to a dull lilac gray. Simone stood by the building for more than two hours, watching the firefighters extinguish the last pockets of flame. Around six in the morning, a police officer approached her, a young guy clearly exhausted from the sleepless night.
“Are you Lawson, Simone R.?” he asked, checking his notepad.
“Yes. Apartment 402 on the fourth floor. That’s mine.”
“You weren’t home at the time of the fire?”
“No, I was staying at a friend’s.”
The officer wrote something in his notebook.
“Lucky you. Your neighbors, the Greens, are in the hospital right now. They barely made it out. Do you have any idea how the fire might have started?”
Simone shook her head. Tell the truth about the strange old woman? About her warning? It would sound like a delusion.
“No, I don’t know.”
“All right. The investigators will figure it out. Here’s my number. Call me if you remember anything.”
He handed her a slip of paper and walked over to his colleagues.
Simone tucked the paper into her pocket and checked the time. Six-thirty. In half an hour, she needed to be at the MARTA station. Ms. Jenkins had promised to show her everything.
Simone called a rideshare and headed for the station. All the way, she stared out the window, unable to process what had happened. Her life had turned upside down in one night. Her home was burned, her apartment destroyed, and all because someone wanted to kill her—because there was no other way to explain it. The fire started right on her floor, right at her apartment. The officer said the investigation would figure it out, but Simone already knew this was not an accident.
The car stopped by the station entrance. Simone got out, paid the fare, and looked around. The familiar place: the MARTA entrance, newspaper stands, a coffee kiosk, and in her usual spot on the worn cardboard sat Ms. Thelma May Jenkins.
The old woman saw her and nodded. Simone walked over and crouched down beside her.
“Ms. Jenkins, I—”
“I know, dear. Thank God you listened.” The old woman’s voice was calm, but her hands were trembling. She reached into the worn bag beside her and pulled out a cheap cell phone. “Here, look.”
Simone took the phone. The screen displayed a photograph. The quality was poor. The picture was clearly taken at night, but she could make things out. The back alley of some building, poorly lit by a single streetlamp. Two men were standing near a building entrance late at night.
“That’s… that’s my building,” Simone whispered, recognizing the familiar outline.
“It is, dear. They were there the night before last. And last night around ten, I was sleeping in the stairwell of the next building, came outside for some air, and saw two men creeping toward your building. One of them had a gas can. I knew right away something was wrong. I took out the phone and snapped pictures. They went into the basement, stayed about fifteen minutes, then came out with another gas can. They went up the stairs in the building, then ran out with the cans and disappeared behind the house. Then the fire started. I knocked on all the doors and yelled, ‘Fire!’ Someone called the fire department.”
Simone scrolled through a few more photos. The men exiting the basement. One adjusted his jacket. The second looked around. And in one of the shots, when the man turned toward the streetlamp, his face was discernible.
It was Kevin Barnes, the security guard from her office.
Simone felt an icy chill run through her.
“I know him,” she managed to say. “He works as a guard at my firm.”
Ms. Jenkins nodded.
“I thought so. He’d been hanging around your building for a few evenings for a reason. And he said your name. Said it’ll be the end of Simone tomorrow. Everything will be over. You know something, dear, since they decided to get rid of you.”
“But I don’t know anything.” Simone clenched the phone in her hand. “I’m just an accountant. I handle documents.”
“Then there’s something in those documents. Something that won’t let them rest. Think, dear. Did you see anything you shouldn’t have, or ask a question you shouldn’t have?”
Simone strained to remember yesterday’s conversation with Victor Sterling. The invoices without signatures. She had asked about them, and the director had reacted strangely. He said he might be confused. But then last night, Kevin was already carrying a gas can to her building.
“Yesterday afternoon, the director asked about the invoices,” Simone said slowly. “He said three of the statements were missing client signatures. I told him that when I received them, the signatures were there. He… he seemed worried and left.”
“There it is,” Ms. Jenkins murmured. “They were running some kind of fake paperwork through you. You noticed the discrepancy, asked about it, and they got scared. They decided to get rid of you before you went to the IRS or the police.”
Simone sat crouched there, oblivious to the passersby. Her head was spinning. They had used her. Fraudulent documents had passed through her hands, and she hadn’t noticed.
“But now I noticed, and it became dangerous. What should I do?” she asked, looking at the old woman.
“Go to the police. Give them the phone. Tell them everything. The photo evidence of the arsonist is right here. Let them sort it out.”
“What about you? It’s your phone.”
“Oh, it’s fine, Simone. I don’t need it. It’s an old one. I can only use it to take pictures. Bought it at a flea market for twenty dollars. Take it. I don’t mind.”
Simone looked at the phone in her hands, then at Ms. Jenkins.
“Thank you. You… you saved my life.”
The old woman smiled, a toothless grin.
“You showed me kindness every day, and it came back to you. Go, dear. Don’t waste time before they figure out you’re alive.”
Simone stood up, put the phone in her pocket, and headed for the nearest police precinct. She remembered the address. She had seen the building many times walking past—a ten-minute walk.
On the way, she called Sierra, told her she was okay, and promised to explain later. Sierra insisted on meeting, but Simone promised to call that evening, and hung up.
The police precinct was housed in an old brick building. Simone walked inside, approached the desk sergeant, a middle-aged man with an indifferent face.
“I need to file a report about attempted murder,” she said firmly.
The sergeant looked up at her, assessing her.
“Go to the third office. The detective on duty is in there.”
Simone walked down the hall and knocked on the specified door. A voice from inside said, “Come in.”
The detective turned out to be a man in his mid-forties with salt-and-pepper hair and sharp gray eyes. The nameplate read: Detective Marcus Hayes.
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk.
Simone sat down and began telling the story—about working at Prime Solutions, about Ms. Jenkins and her warning, about the fire, and about the photographs on the phone. She spoke calmly, trying not to miss a single detail.
Hayes listened, occasionally asking clarifying questions and taking notes in his pad. When she finished, he held out his hand.
“Show me the phone.”
Simone handed him Ms. Jenkins’s phone. Hayes carefully examined the photos, zooming in on the images, scrutinizing the faces.
“You recognized one of the men?”
“Yes. It’s Kevin, the security guard at my firm. I don’t know his last name. He’s new.”
“Okay. I’m seizing the phone as evidence. You’ll be given a copy of the seizure report. Now, write a full statement describing all the circumstances. Then, I’ll contact our specialists. They’re currently investigating your building. If arson is confirmed, we’ll open a criminal case.”
“What about the firm? The director?”
“Nothing regarding the director yet. First, we need to prove arson and establish the identities of the arsonists. Then, we’ll track down the person who ordered it. We’ll proceed carefully so we don’t scare them off.”
Hayes stood up, went to the filing cabinet, and pulled out a statement form.
“Write. Don’t rush. Include everything you remember.”
Simone took the pen and started writing. Her hand trembled and the letters blurred before her eyes, but she forced herself to be precise. She described how she got the job, how she gave Ms. Jenkins money every day, how the old woman warned her. She detailed the conversation with the director about the missing signatures and Kevin’s strange question about where she lived. She noted the office address, the names of her colleagues—everything that could be important.
Forty minutes later, the statement was ready. Hayes read it and nodded.
“Good. Sign here. Now, where do you plan to stay? You can’t go home. Your apartment burned down. Do you have family, friends?”
“I can stay with my friend Sierra.”
“Excellent. Write down her contact information so I can reach you.” He looked at Simone seriously. “Be careful. If they find out you’re alive, they might try again. Don’t go anywhere alone or deserted. Keep your phone on. Call the police at the slightest sign of danger.”
Simone nodded, wrote down Sierra’s number and her own. Hayes escorted her to the exit, promising to contact her during the day.
Stepping onto the street, Simone felt a wave of exhaustion hit her. She had barely slept all night, survived a fire, been to the police station, and now she needed to figure out what to do next. Go to work? No, that would be insane. Victor Sterling and Kevin Barnes were probably waiting for news of her death. When they found out she was alive…
Simone dialed Sierra’s number. Sierra answered on the second ring.
“Simone, finally. What is happening?”
“Sierra, can I come stay with you? I need a place to sleep for a few days, maybe.”
“Of course, honey. Come straight over. What happened?”
“Thank you. I’ll be there in about an hour.”
Simone hailed a rideshare and headed to Sierra’s place. Sierra lived in a small one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of the city, which she had been renting for three years. When Simone arrived, Sierra met her at the door with open arms.
“Girl, you look awful. Come in. I’ll make some tea.”
They sat in the kitchen. Sierra, a curvy, red-haired woman in her thirties, looked at Simone with worry.
“Spill it.”
Simone exhaled and began to tell the entire story, from the first day at Prime Solutions to the visit to the police. Sierra listened open-mouthed, gasping several times.
“Are you serious? You mean they tried to kill you?”
“Looks like it.”
“What now? Maybe you should hide somewhere. Get out of town.”
“No. The detective told me to stay in contact. They’re going to investigate. I have to wait for the results.”
Sierra shook her head.
“That’s terrifying. All right, you can stay here as long as you need. The sofa pulls out. I have bedding. Just be careful, okay? I don’t want anything happening to my best friend.”
“Thank you, Sierra. You’re a true friend.”
They hugged. Simone felt tears well up in her eyes, but held them back. She couldn’t fall apart. She had to stay strong and wait.
The rest of the day was spent in anxious anticipation. Simone lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, replaying the events of the last twenty-four hours. How quickly everything had changed. Yesterday morning, she had a job, a home, a routine life. Today, nothing but ashes and questions.
That evening around eight, Detective Hayes called.
“Simone Lawson, I wanted to update you. The investigators confirmed it. The fire was intentionally set. Gasoline cans were hidden in the basement. The ignition point was near your apartment. An accelerant, presumably gasoline, was used. The fire spread to the third and fourth floors. Your apartment suffered the worst damage. The concentration of substances there was highest.”
“So, they tried to murder me deliberately.”
“All signs point to it. Tomorrow, we’ll start interviewing your firm’s employees. We’ll proceed carefully under the guise of a routine inspection. For now, do not tell the director or anyone else that you’re alive and that you went to the police.”
“Understood. What about the results?”
“I’ll keep you informed. If anything urgent happens, call me anytime.”
Simone thanked him and hung up. Sierra was sitting nearby, nervously waiting for the call to end.
“Well?”
“Arson confirmed. The police are starting their work.”
“Listen, maybe you really should go stay with family, like your parents.”
“My parents are gone. My mom passed away five years ago. I don’t know my father. No other relatives either.”
“Then stay put right here. It’s safer together.”
They went to bed late. Simone lay on the sofa listening to Sierra toss and turn on the bed and couldn’t sleep. Thoughts raced. What would happen tomorrow? What would Victor Sterling say when he found out she was alive? And Kevin—how would he react?
The next morning, on Wednesday, Simone woke up to the sound of a text message. It was Kayla, the secretary from work.
Simone Lawson, it’s Kayla, the secretary at Prime Solutions. Why didn’t you come to work? Victor Sterling is asking.
Simone froze. What should she do? Text back or ignore it?
Kayla, I had an emergency. My building burned down. I can’t work right now, Simone wrote.
What? Seriously? Oh my God. Are you okay? came the reply.
I’m fine. Tell Victor Sterling that I’m taking a few days off to deal with documents and housing.
Okay, I’ll tell him. I’m sorry to hear that. Hang in there.
Simone put down the phone and looked at Sierra, who was standing in the doorway with a mug of coffee.
“Who was that?”
“Work. Asking why I didn’t show up.”
“And you told them? Don’t you think they’ll start looking for you now?”
“I told them about the fire, but not that I know it was arson.”
Sierra nodded, handing her the mug.
“Drink this, and let’s figure out the next step.”
Wednesday was overcast. Heavy clouds obscured the sky. Simone sat in Sierra’s kitchen, drinking her third cup of coffee and trying to organize her thoughts. Two hours had passed since Kayla’s message, and in that time, Simone realized one thing: she couldn’t sit around doing nothing. She had to act.
“Listen,” Sierra said, walking into the kitchen with her laptop. “I was thinking. You said the director asked about the missing signatures on the invoices. Do you have copies of those documents?”
Simone frowned.
“They’re at the office on my work computer, but I can’t go there now.”
“What about your email? Did you send yourself any files?”
“I did sometimes, yeah, for convenience, so I could check things at home if something didn’t match up.”
“Then check your email. Maybe there’s something in there.”
Simone took the laptop, opened her inbox, and scrolled through the emails from the past three months. Indeed, she had forwarded herself documents, spreadsheets, reports, and invoices several times. She opened the files one by one, examining the contents.
Most of the documents looked standard, but one file caught her attention. It was the March report she had prepared for Victor Sterling. Simone opened it and skimmed the lines. Normal company expenses and income: office rent, employee salaries, equipment purchases.
Wait.
Simone focused on one item.
Consulting services. Vector Consulting LLC. $87,000.
Almost a hundred thousand dollars for consulting. Simone frowned. She remembered processing this payment herself. At the time, it seemed strange that a small firm like Prime Solutions would spend that much on consulting, but Victor Sterling had insisted, saying it was an important partnership.
“Sierra, look.” Simone turned the laptop toward her friend. “This amount, almost a hundred thousand dollars for some kind of consulting services. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
Sierra squinted, looking at the screen.
“Odd? That’s suspicious. For a small company, that’s a huge amount of money. What’s Vector Consulting?”
“I don’t know. I just processed the payment based on the paperwork.”
“Let’s look them up online.”
Sierra took the laptop and typed the firm’s name into the search engine. The first results showed several companies with that name, but none matched the tax ID number on Simone’s documents. Sierra frowned and tried searching directly using the tax ID.
“Okay, look. Here’s the tax ID. Vector Consulting LLC was registered two years ago. Legal address…” Sierra paused, reading the information. “An office in a residential building on the outskirts. Director, a guy named Gary Thompson. Type of business: consulting services. No website, no phone number listed.”
“A shell company,” Simone concluded. “Looks like it. Look, the initial capital is ten thousand dollars, the minimum. No real assets. This is a classic money-laundering scheme. Money is transferred supposedly for services, but in reality, it’s just being taken out of the company’s revenue.”
Simone furrowed her brows. So, they really were running fraudulent transactions through her. Victor Sterling had used her as the accountant to process fake documents, and she hadn’t suspected anything. And when she started asking questions about the missing signatures on the invoices, he panicked that she would uncover the whole scheme and decided to get rid of her.
“I need to give this to the detective,” Simone said, pulling out her phone.
She called Hayes. He answered immediately.
“Simone Lawson. Something wrong?”
“Detective Hayes, I found something in my documents. A suspicious payment for nearly a hundred thousand dollars. The recipient company looks like a shell corporation.”
“Excellent. Email me all the documents you have. I’ll forward them to the police’s financial crimes unit. Let them investigate. In the meantime, continue to stay where you are. Don’t go outside unnecessarily. Stay off the grid.”
“Understood. One more thing. Someone from work texted me. The secretary asked why I didn’t show up.”
“And you responded?”
“I told her about the fire, but didn’t mention the police.”
“That was a mistake. You shouldn’t have answered them. Now they know you’re alive. But what’s done is done. At least let them think you survived and are just in shock. That buys us time. We’re conducting a search of the Prime Solutions office this evening. We’ll try to find the original documents in the director’s computer, and we’ll definitely detain Kevin. As soon as we fully establish his identity, we’ll detain him. We’re working on the photos now. Identification is underway.”
Simone thanked him and hung up. She forwarded Hayes all the potentially useful files from her email and closed the laptop.
“Well, are we waiting?” Sierra asked.
“We are.”
The rest of the day dragged on agonizingly slowly. Simone kept going to the window, looking out onto the street, checking her phone. Sierra tried to distract her, putting on a show, offering to play cards, but nothing helped. The tension grew with every minute.
Around seven in the evening, Kayla called Simone.
“Simone Lawson, you won’t believe what’s happening here.”
“What is it?” Simone pretended to be surprised. “Why?”
“I don’t know. The police came in with a search warrant. They turned everything upside down. Victor Sterling is yelling. Kevin Barnes disappeared. Simone, are you all right? Is this related to the fire?”
“I don’t know, Kayla. I’m staying in a hotel right now, dealing with documents and housing. Don’t worry, they’ll sort it out.”
Simone hung up and looked at Sierra.
“The search has started.”
“They’re fast. Do you think they’ll find anything?”
“I hope so.”
Half an hour later, Hayes called.
“Simone Lawson. Good news. We seized the director’s computer and all financial documents for the last year. Preliminary analysis shows that fraudulent transactions totaling around five hundred thousand dollars were run through your firm. The money was funneled through several shell companies, including Vector Consulting LLC. And Kevin—we identified him. Kevin Barnes, previously convicted of armed robbery, released three years ago, and hired by Sterling as security. We’re looking for him now. He wasn’t at his apartment. He’s been put on the wanted list.”
“So, he ran.”
“Possibly. Or Sterling tipped him off when we arrived. But we’ll find him. It’s a matter of time. You still need to be careful. Barnes is dangerous. If he finds out you’re alive and testifying against him, he might try to come after you.”
Simone swallowed. A chill ran down her spine.
“And Victor Sterling? Was he arrested?”
“Not yet. We took him in for questioning. He denies everything, says he knows nothing about fraudulent transactions, and that he signed the documents without looking, trusting you as the accountant. He’s pinning it on you. Classic tactic. But we have evidence that he’s lying. We found correspondence on Sterling’s computer with the director of Vector Consulting, Gary Thompson. They discussed the money-laundering scheme. We’ll be questioning Thompson tomorrow. I think he’ll crack quickly. People like that usually give up everyone at the first threat of prison.”
“So, things are going well.”
“Yes. Continue to stay in touch. I’ll call as soon as I have news.”
Simone hung up and exhaled. Sierra hugged her shoulders.
“See? It’s all working out. They’ll catch that Kevin. They’ll put the director away, and you can live in peace.”
“I hope so,” Simone replied quietly.
She slept poorly that night. She had nightmares—Kevin with a gas can, flames engulfing the apartment, her own screams for help. She woke up in a cold sweat, sat on the sofa, and listened to the silence of the apartment. Sierra was sleeping peacefully, her breathing steady. Simone envied her calm.
Thursday morning, she was woken by a call. She grabbed the phone and saw Hayes’s number.
“Hello.”
“Simone Lawson. We have news. Thompson was arrested last night. He confessed. He confirmed that Sterling organized the money-laundering scheme through shell companies. Thompson received a percentage for participating. Victor Sterling has been officially arrested, charged with felony fraud. A case of attempted murder—yours—has also been opened. Sterling denies involvement in the arson, but we know he gave the order to Kevin Barnes.”
“And where is Kevin?”
“We found him an hour ago. He was trying to leave the city on a bus. He was arrested at the bus station. He’s at the precinct now giving testimony. He confessed that Sterling paid him ten thousand dollars to burn your house down. He hired one other person to help—Dwayne ‘the Ghost’ Harris, also a criminal associate. Harris is already in custody.”
Simone felt a huge weight lift from her soul.
“So that’s it. They caught all the main suspects.”
“Yes. The investigation is ongoing. We’re gathering evidence and preparing the case. You’ll need to give an official statement, but that can be done at your convenience. The danger has passed.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“No problem. You saved yourself by listening to that old woman. Speaking of her, we’d like to take her statement. Can you connect us with her?”
Simone thought for a moment.
“She usually sits by the MARTA at Decatur Station every morning. Ms. Thelma May Jenkins.”
“Excellent. We’ll find her. Thank you again for your cooperation. Stay safe.”
Hayes hung up. Simone put the phone down and covered her face with her hands. Tears streamed down—tears of relief, exhaustion, and everything she had endured.
Sierra came over and hugged her.
“What happened? Bad news?”
“No,” Simone sobbed. “Good news. They caught them all. It’s over.”
Sierra held her tightly.
“There, there. That’s good. Everything will be all right.”
They sat like that for a few minutes until Simone calmed down. Then she washed her face, drank some water, and sat back on the sofa.
“You know what’s strange?” she said, looking out the window. “I only worked at that firm for two and a half months, and I almost died. All because I asked one question, just one question about missing signatures.”
“You did the right thing,” Sierra said. “If you had stayed silent, they would have kept using you, and when the scheme was exposed, they would have blamed everything on you. Said you, the accountant, organized it all.”
“You’re probably right.”
Simone stood up and went to the window. An ordinary day was beginning outside. People were rushing to work, cars were stuck in traffic, and children were playing somewhere. Life went on no matter what.
“Sierra, I need to go see Ms. Jenkins and thank her. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be standing here right now.”
“Want me to go with you?”
“No, I’ll go alone. It’s personal.”
Sierra nodded understandingly.
“Be careful then.”
Simone took her phone, dressed, and left the apartment. The ride to Decatur Station was about twenty minutes on the train. On the way, she thought about what she would say to Ms. Jenkins. How do you thank someone who saved your life? Words couldn’t express it.
Exiting the MARTA, Simone looked around the familiar spot. Kiosks, stands, crowds of people, and there, by the wall on the worn cardboard, sat Ms. Thelma Jenkins in the same faded coat with the same tin cup in front of her.
Simone walked up and crouched beside her.
“Ms. Jenkins.”
The old woman looked up and smiled.
“Ah, dear, I see you’re alive and well, so everything worked out.”
“Yes. They caught them all—the director and the guard. Thanks to your photographs, you saved my life.”
Ms. Jenkins waved her hand dismissively.
“Oh, that’s nothing. I was just a woman who happened to be in the right place at the right time. You saved yourself by listening to me. If it hadn’t been you, then something else would have happened. Fate is like that. If you’re meant to survive, you will. And if you’re meant to die, you can’t run. The important thing is that you were kind to me. You tossed me change every day, said hello, treated me like a person, not a beggar. That kindness came back to you.”
Simone pulled an envelope from her pocket. Inside were five hundred dollars—all the money she had left after the fire.
“Please take this. It’s not payment for saving me. It’s just from my heart.”
Ms. Jenkins looked at the envelope, then at Simone.
“Dear, you need the money yourself. Your house burned down. Your apartment is gone.”
“I’ll get the insurance money. I’ll find a new job. You need it more right now. Please take it. Don’t refuse.”
The old woman slowly took the envelope and tucked it into her coat pocket.
“Thank you, dear. God bless you. You’re a good person.”
Simone hugged her, feeling the old woman tremble—fragile, small, but with such a strong spirit.
“Ms. Jenkins, where do you live? Maybe I can help somehow.”
The old woman sighed.
“Nowhere, dear. I sleep here, there, in stairwells, at the bus station. My children cut me off. My grandchildren don’t know me. My Social Security check is small. It’s not enough for housing.”
Simone felt her heart clench.
“Would you like to live in a retirement home? You’d have a roof over your head, food, medical care.”
Ms. Jenkins shook her head.
“I would, of course, but the waiting list is huge, and they’re mostly private. I can’t afford it.”
“I’ll help,” Simone said firmly. “I promise. As soon as I get my own life sorted out a little, I’ll take care of yours. You deserve a peaceful old age.”
The old woman looked at her with gratitude.
“You’re an angel, dear. A true angel.”
They sat a little longer, talking about trivial things. Ms. Jenkins told Simone how she ended up on the street. Her husband died ten years ago. Her children moved away across the country and stopped helping. She had to sell the apartment to pay off her husband’s debts.
Simone listened, thinking how unfair the world was. This woman had lived a long life, raised children, and ended up on the street.
“Ms. Jenkins, I promise you I won’t abandon you,” Simone said, standing up. “I’ll come back when everything is settled, and we’ll find you a proper place.”
“Go, dear, and be happy. You are good, and life will repay you with kindness.”
Simone said goodbye and headed back to the MARTA. Her heart felt warm. Despite all the difficulties, she was alive. The criminals were caught. And now she had a goal—to help the person who saved her.
The next two weeks flew by in a blur. Simone gave statements to the detective, met with a lawyer, and dealt with filing the insurance claim for her burned apartment. The process was long and exhausting. The insurance company demanded countless documents, affidavits, and expert evaluations. Simone drove from one office to another several times a day, collecting paperwork.
She stayed with Sierra, and her friend never complained, even though the close quarters were noticeable. A one-bedroom apartment for two is a test, even for the best of friends. But Sierra was a trooper, cracking jokes, cooking dinner, and trying to keep Simone’s spirits up.
On Friday, two weeks after the fire, Hayes called Simone.
“Simone Lawson, I have news. The investigation is complete. The case has been sent to court. Victor Sterling is charged with fraud and attempted murder. Kevin Barnes and Dwayne Harris are charged with attempted murder and arson. Gary Thompson will receive a sentence for conspiracy to commit fraud. All defendants are in custody awaiting trial.”
“When is the trial?”
“In two or three months at the earliest. You’ll be called to give testimony, but it’s a formality. The evidence is sufficient. They all confessed.”
“So, I can finally live in peace.”
“Yes. The threat is gone. By the way, one more piece of news. Remember Ms. Jenkins, the old woman? We took her statement. She confirmed that she saw the arsonists and photographed them. Her testimony was included in the case as important evidence.”
“She’s a good woman, Ms. Jenkins. It’s a shame she’s living on the street. I promised to help her,” Simone said. “As soon as I sort out my own life, I’ll arrange housing for her.”
“That’s admirable. I might be able to help with the arrangements. I have contacts at a government-affiliated facility of that type. If you need anything, call me.”
Simone thanked him and hung up. She sat on the sofa holding the phone and thought about the future. What now? Find a new job, rent an apartment. The insurance would cover some of the losses, but not all of it. She had to start from scratch.
The next day, Saturday, Simone opened job websites, browsing listings for accountants and sending out résumés. By evening, she had sent ten applications. Now, all she could do was wait.
On Monday, she got a call from a company, Summit Financial Corp. They offered her an interview. Simone agreed, writing down the address and time.
On Tuesday, she went to the meeting. The Summit office was located in a modern high-rise in the city center. Simone was met by the HR manager, Olga Johnson, a pleasant woman in her forties. They talked for half an hour, discussing Simone’s experience, her skills, and her salary expectations. Olga asked questions about her previous workplaces, and Simone honestly told her about Prime Solutions without going into detail about the criminal case.
“I understand,” Olga nodded. “Sometimes you end up in the wrong company, but your experience is impressive. Fifteen years in accounting is serious. We’re ready to make you an offer. The salary is fifty-five thousand on probation. After three months, it goes up to sixty-five thousand. Nine-to-six schedule, Saturdays and Sundays off. Does that work for you?”
Simone nodded. The terms were acceptable, much better than at Prime Solutions.
“It works. When can I start?”
“Next Monday, if you agree.”
They shook hands and Simone left the office with a feeling of relief. The first step was taken. She had a job. Now she needed to solve the housing problem.
That evening, she discussed it with Sierra.
“Hey, maybe we should rent a two-bedroom apartment together,” Sierra suggested. “I’m lonely here by myself, and it would be cheaper if we split the rent.”
Simone considered it. The proposal was reasonable. Renting a one-bedroom apartment alone would be expensive, and she and Sierra had already adjusted to living together.
“That’s a great idea. Let’s look.”
They spent the evening browsing rental listings. They found a few suitable options, called the owners, and arranged viewings for the weekend.
On Saturday, they looked at three apartments. The first was too expensive. The second was in poor condition. But the third was perfect—a two-bedroom on the second floor in a quiet neighborhood close to the MARTA. The furniture was simple but solid. The landlady, an elderly woman named Mrs. Dolores Washington, asked for $1,750 a month, plus utilities.
Simone and Sierra exchanged glances and agreed. $875 each. Totally manageable.
“When will you move in?” Mrs. Washington asked.
“Tomorrow, if we can,” Sierra replied.
“Then let’s sign the lease. You pay the first month and the security deposit and you can move in. The main thing for me is that you’re decent people and not drinkers.”
“We don’t drink,” Simone assured her. “And we’ll keep it tidy.”
They signed the lease, paid the money, and got the keys. The next day, they moved their belongings. Sierra didn’t have much. Simone had even less. Everything had burned in the fire. But this was the start of a new life, and Simone felt her old confidence returning with each passing day.
On Monday, she started her new job. The team at Summit was friendly. Brenda Gene Holloway, the chief accountant, a woman in her fifties with graying hair and kind eyes, showed Simone around the office, pointed out her workstation, and explained her duties. The work was demanding, but it was clear and straightforward. No suspicious transactions, no fraudulent documents. Everything was legal and transparent.
Simone immersed herself in the work, checking accounts, preparing reports, and reconciling invoices. The routine was calming. It restored her sense of stability. Her colleagues were welcoming. No one asked unnecessary questions about her previous job. After a week, Simone felt like she was settling in.
But thoughts of Ms. Jenkins still occupied her mind. Every morning, passing Decatur Station, Simone stopped, greeted the old woman, and gave her money. Not change as before, but one or two hundred dollars. Ms. Jenkins would thank her, ask how she was doing, and express happiness for Simone.
“Dear, you’ve done so much for me already,” the old woman said. “You don’t need to give me more money. Live your own life.”
“Ms. Jenkins, I promise to help you get into a retirement home, and I’m going to do it. It just takes time.”
Simone started looking for information about retirement homes in the city. It turned out there were public and private ones. Public ones were free, but the waiting list was huge. You could wait for years. Private ones were expensive, starting at $2,500 a month. This was a significant sum for Simone, but she wasn’t going to give up.
She remembered Hayes’s offer to help with a public facility and called him, reminding him of his promise. A few hours later, he called Simone back and gave her the number for the director of a retirement home on the outskirts of the city. The facility was called Serenity Gardens.
Simone drove there and met the director, Angela Stone, an energetic woman. The home looked clean and well-maintained. The rooms were bright, and the dining room smelled of fresh baking. The elderly residents sat in the common room watching television and playing checkers.
“We have an opening,” Angela said. “A single room. You can bring your ward for a visit. Let her see what it’s like.”
Simone arranged it, and the next day she brought Ms. Jenkins to Serenity Gardens. The old woman entered the building timidly, looking around. Angela showed them around the floors, pointing out the room meant for Ms. Jenkins. It was small but cozy: a bed, a dresser, a nightstand, a television, and a window overlooking the garden.
“You’ll live right here,” Angela said. “Meals three times a day in the dining room. A nurse on duty around the clock. A doctor makes rounds every week.”
Ms. Jenkins stood in the middle of the room, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks.
“Dear, this is like a dream. I never could have imagined something like this.”
Simone put her arm around her shoulders.
“It’s real, Ms. Jenkins. You deserve a peaceful old age.”
The old woman sniffled and leaned against Simone.
“You’re an angel, a true angel of God. How can I ever repay you?”
“You already repaid me. You saved my life. Now it’s my turn to help you.”
They returned to Angela’s office and filled out the paperwork. Ms. Jenkins could move in today.
“I don’t have any belongings,” the old woman said. “Just what I’m wearing.”
“It’s fine,” Simone replied. “We’ll buy everything you need. Clothes, shoes, toiletries. We’ll go shopping right now.”
They spent the rest of the day buying things. Simone bought Ms. Jenkins two outfits, a warm robe, slippers, a toothbrush, soap, shampoo, and towels. The old woman was embarrassed, saying it was too much, but Simone didn’t listen. She could see Ms. Jenkins’s eyes shining with happiness, and that was the best reward.
By evening, they returned to Serenity Gardens. Ms. Jenkins took a shower—the first in many months—and changed into new clothes with the help of a nurse. When Simone came into her room to say goodbye, the old woman was sitting on the bed, clean, her hair combed, wearing a fresh robe, and smiling.
“Dear, I feel like I’m in heaven. I can’t even believe this is real.”
“It is real, Ms. Jenkins. Live peacefully and get your strength back. I’ll come visit you.”
“You are so kind. You know, I’ve always believed that kindness comes back. When I was left on the streets, I thought I was wrong. But no, you prove to me that I was right. Kindness always comes back, just not right away.”
Simone kissed the old woman on her wrinkled cheek and left the room. On the way home, she thought about how strangely everything had worked out. Two months ago, she was an unhappy divorced woman working for a questionable firm, barely making ends meet. Then came the fire. She almost died and she lost her apartment. Now she had a new life and the feeling that she had done something truly important. She had helped a person who deserved it.
In mid-May, she received a notice from the insurance company. The payout was approved. Simone received $90,000 for her burned apartment. It was significantly less than the market value, but it was something. Simone deposited the money and started planning. She decided to save some of the money for the future in case of unforeseen expenses. She would spend the rest on furniture and furnishing the apartment she shared with Sierra.
Three weeks later, Simone returned to the retirement home to visit Ms. Jenkins. The old woman sat by the window looking at the garden. In three weeks, she had visibly changed. Her face was fresher and her eyes sparkled. She had gained weight and looked younger.
“Ms. Jenkins, I brought you a cake and some good tea.”
The old woman turned and looked at Simone with wide eyes.
“Dear, thank you. I was waiting for you. How are you doing?”
“I got the insurance payout for the apartment. I have a new job. You’re fed, warm, and safe. What more could I ask for?”
Ms. Jenkins wept. Simone hugged her, stroking her gray hair.
“Don’t cry. Everything is fine. You deserve this peaceful life.”
“Dear, I… I don’t know how to thank you. You restored my faith in people. I thought the world was cruel, that no one cared about anyone else. But you showed me that’s not true.”
“The world is diverse, Ms. Jenkins. There are bad people like Sterling and Barnes, but there are good people like Detective Hayes, like Sierra. The important thing is not to lose faith.”
They sat together for another hour, drinking tea with cake and talking about life. Ms. Jenkins told stories about her youth, her husband, and her children. Simone listened, feeling warmed by the stories. The old woman had lived a long life full of both joy and sorrow. But at the end of her journey, she had found peace.
Before leaving, Simone said, “Ms. Jenkins, don’t worry about anything. I’ll keep coming just as I promised.”
“Dear, you do too much for me. You have your own life, your own plans.”
“Ms. Jenkins, you saved my life. That’s not something you forget. And besides, it’s not hard for me. The job is good. The salary is decent. I can afford to help someone who deserves it.”
The old woman cried again, but these were tears of gratitude and happiness.
In November, Simone received an unexpected call. It was Victor Sterling’s lawyer.
“Ms. Lawson. My name is Michael Yarrow. I represent the interests of Victor Sterling. He would like to meet with you.”
Simone was taken aback.
“Meet? Why?”
“He wants to apologize. I understand this is a strange request, but my client insists. The meeting would take place at the detention facility in the presence of guards. There is no danger to you.”
Simone thought it over. Part of her wanted to refuse. Why should she see the man who tried to kill her? But another part was curious. What did he want to say?
“All right. I’ll come. When?”
“This Saturday at two in the afternoon. I’ll send you the address and the visitor pass.”
On Saturday, Simone drove to the detention facility—a grim building on the outskirts of the city, high fences, barbed wire. She went through security and was led to the visitation room, a small space with two chairs on opposite sides of a table, separated by thick glass.
A few minutes later, Sterling was brought in. He had changed greatly in six months. He had lost weight, aged, and his hair was completely gray. He sat across from Simone and picked up the phone receiver. Conversation was only possible through it.
“Hello, Ms. Lawson,” he said quietly.
“Hello,” Simone replied coldly.
“Thank you for coming. I… I wanted to apologize. I know it doesn’t change anything, but I needed to say it. I was wrong. I did terrible things. I tried to kill you to cover up my crime. It’s unforgivable. It’s a heavy burden on my heart, and it won’t let me rest.”
Simone remained silent, looking at him.
“Why did you do it?” she finally asked. “Why did you need that scheme with the shell companies?”
Sterling lowered his eyes.
“Debt. I had huge debts. I took out loans to start the business, but it failed. Collectors started threatening me. I panicked and started looking for ways to make money quickly. Thompson offered the money-laundering scheme. I transferred money to his firms. He returned the cash to me, taking a percentage. That’s how I took money out of the company’s revenue, paid off debts. I used you because you were new and didn’t know all the details. I thought you wouldn’t notice, but you did notice. You asked about the missing signatures and I got scared that you would expose the whole scheme. I decided to get rid of you. I hired Barnes. It was my mistake. A huge, unforgivable mistake.”
“You tried to kill me,” Simone said firmly. “Burn me alive. If it hadn’t been for Ms. Jenkins, I would be dead.”
“I know. I think about it every day. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. I just wanted you to know that I’m ashamed. I realize what I did. Eight years in prison is a fair punishment, maybe even too little.”
Simone looked at him and felt her anger draining away. Sitting before her was not a cartoon villain, but a broken man who had made a terrible mistake and was now paying for it.
“I can’t forgive you,” she said. “But I see that you repent. I hope these years teach you something.”
“They will teach me. I’ll be making amends for my guilt for the rest of my life. Thank you for listening.”
Simone put down the receiver and left the room. Outside, she took a deep breath of fresh air. The meeting had been difficult, but necessary. Now she could put a period on this story and move on without bitterness or anger.
December brought the first snow. The city transformed, decorated with garlands and Christmas trees. Simone and Sierra put up a small tree in the apartment and hung tinsel. On New Year’s Eve, Simone went to Serenity Gardens to wish Ms. Jenkins a happy holiday and give her a gift—a warm throw blanket and a box of chocolates.
The old woman greeted her in a festive mood.
“Dear, Happy New Year. I’m so glad to see you.”
They sat in the room, drank tea, and talked about their New Year’s plans. Ms. Jenkins said the retirement home was preparing a holiday concert and she would be singing in the choir.
“You know, dear, I look back on this last year of my life as the happiest,” she said. “Even though before it I was homeless, hungry, and cold. But you appeared, and everything changed. You showed me that the world is not as cruel as I thought. That there are kind people who help simply from the heart.”
“You helped me, too, Ms. Jenkins. You saved my life without expecting a reward, just because I was kind to you. See how it works? Kindness comes back.”
The old woman nodded, smiling.
“Yes, dear. It always comes back. I knew that my whole life, but in my old age, I doubted it, and you reminded me of that truth.”
Simone hugged her, and they sat there watching the falling snow outside the window. The city was preparing for the holiday. Lights twinkled in the darkness, and people hurried home with gifts. And somewhere in this big world, two people—a young woman and an elderly one—had found the family they didn’t have.
A few days later, just after the New Year’s holidays, Angela Stone called Simone.
“Simone, I have news. Remember I told you about Ms. Jenkins’s daughter, Candace? She came by yesterday.”
“She came? Why?”
“She said she had changed her mind. She wants to mend her relationship with her mother. She brought gifts, apologized, and cried. Ms. Jenkins initially didn’t want to see her, but then she agreed to talk.”
“How did it go?”
“It was difficult. They talked for about two hours. Candace explained that she had been selfish, that she was ashamed of her past, and that she realized her mistake. Ms. Jenkins listened and cried. In the end, they reconciled. Candace promised to visit every month and even offered to take her mother home, but Ms. Jenkins refused. She said she was happy here and didn’t want to leave.”
Simone smiled. So, Ms. Jenkins had another support system in her life. Her daughter had returned. Maybe her son would come to his senses someday, too.
“That’s wonderful news, Angela. I’m so happy for Ms. Jenkins.”
“She asked me to tell you that she very much wants you to keep visiting. She says, ‘You are like a daughter to her.’”
“Of course, I’ll keep visiting. Absolutely.”
Simone hung up and thought. The story had ended well for everyone. The criminals were punished. Ms. Jenkins had found peace and reconciled with her daughter, and Simone herself had found a new job, a new home, and a new meaning in life.
In February, on a weekend, Simone drove to Serenity Gardens again. Ms. Jenkins was sitting by the window as usual, but next to her was a woman in her fifties, slim and elegantly dressed. It was Candace, Ms. Jenkins’s daughter.
“Simone, meet my daughter, Candace,” Ms. Jenkins said. “Candace, this is Simone, the young woman who saved my life.”
Candace stood up and extended her hand.
“It’s a pleasure. Mom told me a lot about you. Thank you for everything you’ve done for her. I… I was a bad daughter, but you showed me what it means to be humane. I’m ashamed of my behavior, but I hope to make amends.”
Simone shook her hand.
“The important thing is that you came back. Ms. Jenkins is happy, and that’s what matters most.”
The three of them drank tea and talked. Candace spoke about her life, her husband, her children—Ms. Jenkins’s grandchildren—whom she planned to bring to meet their grandmother. The old woman listened, and happiness radiated from her eyes.
When Simone was leaving, Ms. Jenkins walked her to the exit.
“See, dear, everything worked out. My daughter came back. I’ll see my grandchildren, and it’s all thanks to you. You didn’t just save me, you saved my family. You showed Candace what true kindness is.”
“I just did what I had to do, Ms. Jenkins.”
“No, dear. You did more. You gave me a new life, and I will be grateful to you for the rest of my days.”
They hugged in farewell. Simone went out onto the street and walked toward the bus stop. Her heart felt warm and peaceful. Life went on, and it was full of meaning.
Several more months passed. Simone continued to work at Summit. Brenda Gene Holloway promoted her. She was now a senior accountant. Sierra found a boyfriend, and she and Simone discussed the possibility of Sierra moving in with him, but they decided not to rush. Everything in its time.
In May, Simone celebrated her birthday—thirty-six years old. Sierra threw a small party at the apartment, inviting colleagues and friends. Even Ms. Jenkins came with Candace. The old woman looked wonderful, happy, surrounded by attention and love. She raised a toast.
“To my dear Simone, for showing me and all of us that kindness is not dead in this world, for saving me without expecting a reward, and for the fact that kindness always comes back.”
Everyone raised their glasses, and Simone felt tears welling up in her eyes. A year ago, she was alone, lost, and didn’t know what to do with her life. Now, she was surrounded by people who loved and valued her. And it all started with a simple gesture: a few dollars dropped into an old woman’s tin cup by the MARTA station.
Kindness might not come back on the same day, but it always comes back.
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