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.”
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