Jack and I had barely spent a full night in our new rental—a simple, one-story house nestled in a quiet suburban neighborhood. It was nothing special, just a temporary stop for a work assignment. The lawn was dry, the bricks a dull tan, and the shutters a faded green. We hadn’t even managed to unpack the coffee maker when the doorbell rang. Jack groaned. “We don’t even have curtains yet.” I peeked through the peephole and smirked. “Looks like we’ve already met the Welcome Committee.”
Standing on the porch was a woman in a pastel pink cardigan and matching headband, holding a tray of cookies as though presenting an offering. Her smile was sweet, but her eyes darted around like she was scanning for trouble. “Hi there!” she chirped. “I’m Lindsey. I live across the street and just wanted to say welcome!” She handed over the cookies—chocolate chip, perfectly arranged like they came straight from a commercial.
Jack gave a half-hearted wave. “Thanks.” But I could tell she wasn’t really here to welcome us. Her eyes kept flicking over our shoulders, peering inside as though she expected to catch us doing something scandalous. “Settling in okay?” she asked, her tone light but her gaze busy. “Just moved in yesterday,” I replied. “Lovely area,” she said, stretching out the word ‘orderly’ like it held some deeper meaning.
Then came the real reason for her visit. “Just a friendly reminder about the HOA rules,” she said, all sweetness. “Only one car per household in the driveway. Keeps everything neat and tidy.” Jack raised an eyebrow. “We’re not even on the street. Both cars fit just fine.” “Rules apply to everyone,” she said with a smile that was too perfect. “That’s the beauty of it.” We thanked her and shut the door.
“She looked like she was waiting to find a meth lab behind the sofa,” I muttered. “I bet she’s already memorized our license plates,” Jack joked. The cookies, still warm and untouched, sat on the counter.
Three days later, just before dawn, we were jolted awake by the sound of heavy metal clanking. Jack groggily sat up. “What’s that?” I peeked out the window. “Jack. Get up. Now.” We ran barefoot and half-dressed to the door and flung it open. Two tow trucks were in our driveway, lifting both of our cars. “Hey!” I yelled. “What do you think you’re doing?”
One of the drivers didn’t even glance at us. “HOA violation. Orders came in this morning.” Jack stepped forward, frowning. “There’s no notice, no warning. Who gave this order?”
And there she was. Lindsey, wrapped in a lavender bathrobe, sipping from her mug like she’d just won a prize. Her smug smile stretched across the sidewalk. “Wow,” I said loudly. “You really went through with it.” “What’s funny?” she asked, frowning. I strolled toward her, calm and collected. “Nothing, except you just cost yourself twenty-five thousand dollars.” Her smile froze. “What?”
Jack joined me, pointing to a small, nearly invisible sticker on our car’s rear windshield. Lindsey’s brow furrowed as she stepped closer. “What is that?”
I didn’t answer. I just gave her a look, turned, and walked back toward the house, Jack by my side. Behind us, Lindsey called out again, but we quietly closed the door. No shouting. No drama. Just finality.
Later that evening, I made a call. “We’ve got a situation,” I said. “Civilian interference. Property tampering.” The voice on the other end was calm. “Understood.”
By sunrise, a sleek black SUV rolled into the neighborhood and parked in front of Lindsey’s house. A man in a sharp suit stepped out, silent and composed. He nodded at me, and together we crossed the street. I rang the doorbell.
Lindsey opened the door, still in her pink robe, her hair a frizzy mess, holding her ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ mug. She blinked at us, confused. The agent pulled out his ID. “Ma’am, you are now under investigation for interfering with an active undercover federal operation.”
Her face drained of color. “What? I—I don’t understand.”
“You ordered the removal of two marked government vehicles, which compromised an ongoing investigation. The damages total twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Her mug slipped from her hands, shattering on the porch. Jack stepped forward. “Maybe next time, don’t try to play sheriff.” The agent gave her final instructions: don’t leave town, don’t destroy evidence, and wait to be contacted. She nodded, wide-eyed and speechless.
We turned and walked back across the street to our house. Lindsey didn’t say a word. Her door stayed ajar, her blinds shut tight for days after. Those perfect rose bushes she once bragged about? They never looked quite the same again.
