They Told Me To Endure Her, Until They Faced Her Nightmare Too Chapter 02

At first light, I called an emergency locksmith.

He crouched by the jamb, unbolted the bent strike plate, and rattled the door against the frame.

“Old wood. Frame was already loose, and someone took a heavy piece of iron right to the deadbolt. Screws alone aren’t going to hold this together.”

I asked if he could make it functional for now.

“Yeah, I can patch it.”

He torqued a fresh bolt into the jamb with a ratcheting whine, then gave the doorknob a hard jerk.

“Two-eighty, parts and labor included. It’ll buy you a few days, but get the whole slab replaced. You don’t want the latch binding while you’re inside.”

I paid him, kept the broken hardware in a bag, and asked for an itemized receipt.

Before noon, Hannah posted a photo to the group chat—curled on her futon in an oversized hoodie, hair tangled over her face, an untouched glass of water beside her.

She added:

[I haven’t slept or eaten since last night. I know I caused trouble, but I’m really not a bad person.]

Underneath was a screenshot of my payment request.

Just the $280 total.

She’d deliberately cropped out the dented doorframe and my question about how she planned to stop. All anyone saw was the price tag.

Someone from 3B chimed in:

[She’s a young woman living alone in the city. Show some basic decency.]

Unit 1B added:

[Take care of your health first, Hannah.]

On my way back upstairs, I ran into Wendy carrying two bags of trash down the narrow stairs.

She planted herself on the landing, lowering her voice.

“Stop riding her so hard, Summer. I went down to check on her earlier. She’s a total wreck. Hasn’t eaten a bite.”

“Then she should call family to stay with her, or go to urgent care.”

Wendy scowled. “Does everything have to turn into a federal case? Just tell her it’s fine so we can all move on.”

I stared at the trash bags in her hands. “If she spent thirty minutes bashing your deadbolt last night, would you tell her it’s okay?”

Wendy flinched, pulling the bags closer. “Why are you dragging me into this?”

“I was wondering the same thing. She wrecked my door, so why are you the one telling me to eat the cost?”

The color drained from Wendy’s face. “I’m just being neighborly. We all have to live together.”

I didn’t answer. I stepped past her and headed up the stairs.

The moment I stepped inside, my phone buzzed. A direct message from Hannah:

[I can scrape together fifty bucks right now. If you post in the group chat that this is all settled, I’ll Venmo it over.]

Even fifty dollars had a price tag: my public silence.

I texted back:

[It isn’t settled. I paid for the repairs. You still haven’t answered how you’re going to stop hitting my door.]

No money came through.

Five minutes later, another post lit up the main building thread:

[I offered what little savings I have, but she just won’t let it go.]

Derek from 6A fired back almost instantly:

[Give it a rest, Summer. We’re in an apartment building, not a courtroom.]

I muted the thread and pulled up a chair in front of my monitors.

I still needed to finalize the cutting margins on two packaging dielines.

Just as my cursor aligned the bleed line, a heavy thud echoed down the stairwell.

I backed up the proposals, separated the folders, and audited every single rate card.

By the time I finished, it was past dark. I hadn’t touched food all day.

My phone vibrated. Miller, the building manager.

“Summer, step down to the basement. We need to clear this up.”

I grabbed the invoice and took the stairs down.

Miller was leaning against a steel desk littered with work orders. Across from him sat Wendy and Hannah, a tissue clutched in Hannah’s lap.

On the counter sat a printed form waiting for my signature.

The bold header across the top read:

MUTUAL RELEASE OF LIABILITY

Under the table, I unlocked my phone and texted the contractor:

[How soon can you hang it?]

His reply flashed on the screen: [Three days out.]

I texted back: [Lock it in.]