Carol's Bag of Shit, as it was now officially known, sat beside her in the passenger seat of her Lexus. Of course her Saturday was empty. She had tried a morning hike up in Griffith Park but quickly tired of it when all she passed was joggers and couples; she was neither of those things. Half-expecting Carol or Beverly (or both!) to pop up around each corner added to her fatigue. It was exhausting to constantly be on edge, wanting and dreading the same thing at every turn. Eventually, she'd turned around and marched purposefully back to her car, spinning up dust in her wake as she sped away. Why anyone would do that hike alone was beyond her. Instead she had a plan.

Well, the beginning of a plan. She was going to take that fucking bag of trash and dump it on Carol's doorstep. She hadn't thought ahead any farther. Would she knock? Would she confront the bitch? … Would she just grab her and fuck out all her apologies? Probably not.

Slowing down, Helen looked at her GPS and then the surrounding street. She'd never actually been to Carol's place. A penthouse condo in West Hollywood apparently. She had to wrangle Big Janice from HR to give her the details, citing some sort of outstanding issue regarding a contract. Janice wasn't stupid but she pretended to be. She was however something resembling a modern Amazonian woman, standing at nearly 6'5. She would give Big Janice a big raise at the next budgetary mandate meeting.

When she got to the front lobby, she scrolled through the panel. Rance, C. There it was. Call #501. Easy enough. Her finger hovered over the buttons. What would she say? "Come down here and get your crap?" Or, "Hi, it's me. I have a bag of shit for you." Yeah, no. Maybe it would just be easier to leave it with the concierge. Of course, she'd miss the look of sheer terror but that would have been waived anyway with a call. She pressed the call button for him and the responding buzz almost made her jump out of her skin.

Her heels clacked loudly on the granite floor, echoing ominously as she approached the high lacquered desk. A black man of about 30 gave her a once over, twice. "Can I help you, ma'am?" Ugh. She hated that word.

She plopped the bag on the countertop. Another whiff of perfume hit her nostrils. "Yes, I have this for Carol Rance. I'm her—It's her…" she stumbled over how to categorise it. "Stuff."

"Stuff? Like drugs?"

Offended, Helen's brow furrowed and she glared at the man. "No, not like drugs. Do I look like a dealer to you?"

He shrugged, a smirk crinkling his lips. He was fucking with her. Her shoulders sagged and relaxed slightly. "Oh, that was a joke," she said deadpan, thinking about the four large True OG joints sitting deep in her purse.

"It was." He looked her over again and then at the bag which clearly contained clothes and accessories. "You a friend of hers?"

She pursed her lips for a moment. "Yes," she said very carefully, watching his expression shift ever so slightly with the admission. Then he shrugged quickly, and grabbed a memo note pad, scribbling her name and condo unit on it.

"Cool, she doesn't have many of those coming around."

Helen was glad she didn't live in a condo with nosy security guards giving away all her personal secrets.

"Nice to see," he continued without looking up from his logbook. "She's good people, you know what I'm saying? A bit high-strung but couldn't ask for a better face to see in the morning."

"Yeah," Helen agreed, almost suspiciously. And then she was struck with what it had been like to see that face first thing in the morning as well, bed head, morning breath and all. Her heart sputtered a bit in her chest and she frowned again, deep lines carving into her forehead. Her fingers were absently playing with the hem of one of Carol's blouses in the bag. She clenched her fist closed.

He closed the book, and reached for the bag. "She expecting it?"

Shrugging, Helen nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I texted her about it." A bald-faced lie.

"All right. Well, if you see her, let her know I'm missing my lollipops. Haven't seen her in weeks, man."

Curiosity piqued, she couldn't resist. "Lollipops?"

He laughed then, a bit embarrassed it seemed. "Yeah, I'm trying to kick the habit, you know?" He tapped his breast pocket where a few cigarettes were poking out. "Lollipops every morning, right. A bag of 'em. Those big suckers with the chewy shit inside. Gets me through the day." He bit down on a nail before stapling the memo to the bag and putting it aside. "Where she at anyway?"

As far as Helen knew, Carol was supposed to be here. But then keeping tabs on her ex-girlfriend extended only so far as calling up The CW to double-check a suspicion she'd had. Of course that crazy Castor Sotto was talking out of his ass and her stupid, gullible girlfriend had fallen for his bullshit again. Men. She just didn't understand the appeal.

"Around," Helen lied again, forcing a small smile.

The man—Dexter as it said on his name tag—hummed to himself and twisted the pen around his fingers. "Good, good. I mean, I saw her around and she was so happy, then like, 3 weeks ago or something, she came in here totally bummed out. Man, I never seen her so low. Eyes all red and puffy and just like, total mess. Didn't wanna chat. You know anything about that?"

Helen balked a little at the outpouring of information. "I'm sorry, are you two close?" Suddenly this all seemed a little too invasive, especially since more than likely she was the cause of those tears. Maybe he knew something.

He chuckled uncomfortably, scratching at his arm. "Nah, nah. Just worried is all. Like I said, she's good people."

It was time for the ice glare. "If I knew, I really don't think it's appropriate to be telling just anybody about Carol's personal life. And I don't think you should be asking." She was sure she could have pried for way more details from this guy if she had played along, been a little coy, a little flirty. Discretion didn't appear to be in his lexicon. But something deeper pulled her away from that and into something else, something angry and protective. "Tread carefully, Dex." She forced a saccharine smile again and tapped the desktop.

He nodded, clearly chastised adequately. With a quick turn, she put on her best executive walk and strode towards the door. It was only as she reached for the handle she remembered something else. The key that was attached to her key-ring with a silly smiley face sticker on it. She remembered receiving that key from a very flustered girlfriend who obviously had no idea what she was doing or why, and in retrospect actually seemed very uncomfortable about it all. But it was some sort of quid pro quo exchange of house keys. She stopped short, turned again, and strode back.

"On second thought," she trilled, jangling her keys at Dexter, "I'll just go check on her place. Keep the bag here."

He nodded again and waved her towards the elevator.