Priscilla turned sharply toward him.
“Ronald,” she hissed, “not in the hallway.”
That told me something important.
She knew too.
Or at least she knew enough to be dangerous.
The elevator chimed at the far end of the hall.
Ronald’s head snapped sideways.
Two building security officers stepped out, moving fast. The locksmith stood so quickly he nearly tripped over his own tool bag.
“Sir,” one guard called, “step away from the residence.”
Ronald lifted both hands slightly, adopting the wounded posture of a concerned husband.
“My ex-wife is unstable,” he said. “We’re worried about her.”
“We have direct confirmation from the resident that you’re unauthorized,” the guard replied. “You need to leave.”
Priscilla exhaled dramatically. “This is absurd. Do you know who we are?”
The second guard glanced at his tablet. “Yes, ma’am. You’re listed as no-access.”
That one sentence seemed to strike Priscilla harder than the declined credit card.
