I was enjoying a nice evening at home when I heard a pounding at my door. I looked out the peephole and saw that it was my landlord. Confused since I had already paid that month’s rent, I opened the door only enough to show my face.
“Good evening, Mr. Schmidt,” I said in the most cheerful voice I could muster. “What can I help you with?”
“I need you out of here by tomorrow,” he said, hardly even looking at my face.
“What? Why?”
“I don’t rent to convicted murderers.”
I paled. How did he know about that?
“Mr. Schmidt, please, let me explain. My ex-boyfriend caused a fatal accident and manipulated me into taking the fall for it. That’s why I ended up in jail.”
Mr. Schmidt eyed me for a moment, as though he were considering what I was saying, but then he shook his head.
“I don’t care w
