I walked back to my living room and picked up my tea, still warm in its mug.
For the first time in this whole mess, I felt something that might have been concern.
But it was overwhelmed by something much stronger.
Anticipation.
Three days later, I was enjoying my morning coffee and scanning the Spokane Review when I saw my own face staring back at me from page three.
The headline read: “Spokane Businessman Abandons Elderly Couple at Airport During Holiday Storm.”
My hands went still around the coffee mug.
There I was in black and white—an old photo from my company’s website, probably five years out of date.
Below it, a story that made my blood run cold and my temper flare in equal measure.
Cody and Catherine Jenkins, visiting their daughter for Christmas, were left stranded at Spokane International Airport for over four hours Sunday when family member Dennis Flores failed to appear for a pre‑arranged pickup. The couple, both in their late fifties, waited in frigid temperatures as a winter storm warning was issued for the region.
Winter storm warning.
It had been fifty‑two degrees and sunny.
“We couldn’t believe someone would just abandon us like that,” said Cody Jenkins, a retired banking executive. “We called repeatedly, but Mr. Flores never answered his phone. We were forced to take an expensive taxi in dangerous weather conditions. At our age, this kind of treatment is not just inconsiderate, it’s dangerous.”
The article continued with quotes about my “pattern of erratic behavior” and “concerns about my mental state.”
Cody had painted himself and Catherine as helpless victims of a cruel old man who’d suddenly snapped without provocation.
No mention of the Christmas dinner rejection.
No context about Isabella’s demands or their years of financial exploitation.
Just me—the villain who abandoned poor elderly tourists during a blizzard that existed only in Cody’s imagination.
I set down my coffee and read the article again slowly.
Then a third time.
The byline belonged to Patricia Morrison, Lifestyle Editor.
I didn’t recognize the name, but I recognized the strategy.
Cody had called in favors, used his banking connections to get this story placed exactly where it would do maximum damage to my reputation.
Smart.
Very smart.
For the first time since this whole mess started, I felt a grudging respect for my opponents.
They weren’t just entitled trust‑fund babies throwing tantrums.
They were strategic, calculating.
They understood that in a small city like Spokane, reputation was everything.
One well‑placed newspaper article could destroy decades of hard work.
They had declared total war.
I folded the newspaper carefully and set it aside, my mind already shifting into the methodical planning mode that had built my business from nothing.
This wasn’t about airport pickups anymore.
This wasn’t about Christmas dinner or mortgage payments.
This was about winning.
I pulled out my laptop and began typing names into search engines.
Cody Jenkins.
Catherine Jenkins.
Isabella Flores.
Their social media profiles.
Their connections.
Their habits.
Their weaknesses.
Everything they’d foolishly made public over the years.
If they wanted to play chess, I’d show them what a real strategist looked like.
I glanced at my wall calendar.
December 18th.
Seven days until Christmas.
Seven days to plan something they’d never forget.
I spent the next three days living in a different world.
Not the world where I was Dennis Flores, the broken‑down old man who let his family walk all over him.
This was the world where I was Dennis Flores, businessman, strategic thinker, someone who’d built something from nothing and wasn’t about to let a bunch of entitled parasites destroy what I’d worked forty years to build.
My laptop became command central.
Social media profiles filled my browser tabs like playing cards in a high‑stakes game.
Cody Jenkins—retired First National Bank manager, member of the Spokane Country Club, treasurer of the Inland Northwest Business Leaders Association. A man who’d spent his career in positions of trust and influence. A man with a lot to lose.
Catherine’s Instagram painted a perfect picture of refined living–charity luncheons, wine tastings, vacation photos from Coeur d’Alene tagged with #blessedlife. Every post carefully curated to project success and sophistication.
Comments from friends praising her “elegant taste” and “inspiring lifestyle.”
All built on other people’s money.
Including mine.
Isabella’s Facebook timeline told the real story.
Posts about “our beautiful home” with photos of the kitchen I’d paid for.
Check‑ins at expensive restaurants during the months when I’d covered their utility bills.
A status update from last week:
So excited for Christmas dinner with family. Can’t wait to show off our hosting skills.
Our hosting skills.
Our home.
Our success.
The narcissism was breathtaking.
But it was Michael’s LinkedIn profile that gave me the final piece I needed.
His recent activity showed a new connection:
Patricia Morrison, Lifestyle Editor at the Spokane Review.
The same Patricia Morrison who’d written the hatchet job about me.
I leaned back in my desk chair, looking at the evidence spread across my screen.
These people had made three critical mistakes.
First, they’d underestimated me completely.
Second, they’d gone public with their attack, which meant I could go public with my response.
Third, they’d documented their entire privileged lifestyle online, creating a perfect catalog of hypocrisy.
I clicked through to Patricia Morrison’s profile.
Forty‑three years old. Journalism degree from WSU. Fifteen years at local papers. No previous connection to banking or finance, which meant Cody had reached out cold—probably through someone he knew from his business network.
A five‑minute search through local business directories confirmed my suspicion.
Three mutual connections between Cody and Patricia’s editor.
The story hadn’t just appeared.
It had been planted carefully and deliberately.
Amateur hour.
Continued on the next page
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