The owner, a burly man named Arthur, greeted me warmly and showed me to the faulty circuit breaker in the back.

I focused on the work, stripping wires and testing voltages, trying to drown out the clock ticking in my head.

At exactly 9:02 AM, my phone began to vibrate in my pocket.

It didn’t stop.

I stepped down from my stepladder and pulled it out.

Three missed calls from Megan.

One from my mother.

Then, a text message from Megan: “You think you’re clever? You think a lawyer scares me?”

Two minutes later, another text arrived: “They’re making me leave the apartment, Clara. Mom is crying. We have nowhere to go.”

I stared at the screen, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Then, my phone rang again.

This time, it was my father.

I wiped my dusty hands on my jeans and answered it.

“Clara,” my father said, his voice sounding older, strained.

“Dad? What’s going on?”

“Megan just called me, hysterical,” he said, breathing heavily. “She says you’re trying to put her in jail.”

“She tried to blackmail me, Dad. She wanted my apartment.”