Ms. Vivian Hessington, Esquire, is back to wearing a skirt suit—burgundy today, pencil skirt as tight as ever—high heels, and that severe bun on top of her head; must be her lawyer uniform. I preferred her in the casual clothes of the weekend—correction, I don’t prefer her in any guise, because she’s the most aggravating woman in the world.

“Of course,” I scoff. I should’ve known she was responsible for the commotion.

Medusa turns the stare of death on me. “Found good parking today?” She doesn’t leave me time to reply before she returns her attention to the poor bastard she’s torturing. “Mr. Cavendish, it is useless to bring reinforcements.” She pointedly stares at me. “The cavalry won’t help you.”

“No, listen.” I raise my hands. “I’m not involved. I was trying to work in my office when this pandemonium started.”

She ignores my comment and crosses her arms on her chest. “Mr. Cavendish, unless you want me to ask for a restraining order, I suggest you leave.”

“A restraining order? But for what? I just want to talk to my wife. Diana, Diana, I’m sorry. I love you.”

From somewhere inside the corner office, his wife mumbles, “He sounds sincere.”

The witch’s nostrils flare. “He only wants to pay less alimony, trust me, Mrs. Cavendish.”

“No,” the man insists. “I don’t want to pay any alimony, because I don’t want a divorce.”

Mr. Cavendish really does sound sincere, so, despite my better judgment, I get involved. “Let them talk,” I suggest. “If there’s a chance they could resolve their issues, why prevent it?”

Medusa crosses the hall to the elevator and pushes the call button. “There’s no chance,” she says. “Mrs. Cavendish has decided.”

Once the machine arrives, she opens the metal grate door, showing the poor man the inside. “Now, I suggest you leave, Mr. Cavendish, this is private property. Unless you want me to add stalking to the list of grounds for the proceedings.”

The dejected husband is ready to give up, when I once again intervene. “No need to leave, Mr. Cavendish. You’re my guest, you’re not trespassing.”

He falters on the elevator doorstep.

“Get in,” the witch orders, “or I’ll have no choice but to call the police.”

So it isn’t just me; Medusa likes to terrorize everyone. To hell with the police and the private property. This is now equally about helping Mr. Cavendish and sticking it to Miss High-And-Mighty.

The threat, however, is enough to scare the poor bastard for good, and he gets into the elevator. And since I’m already too invested in the drama, I follow him inside. “Mr. Cavendish, why don’t you come to my office and explain the situation to me, and we can see if we might find a solution.”