Lindsey was the kind of neighbor who treated HOA bylaws like holy scripture and neighborhood conformity like a personal crusade. When we pulled two cars into our rented driveway, we might as well have declared war on her carefully ordered suburban kingdom.
Her “welcome” visit was a masterpiece of passive aggression – the too-perfect cookies, the saccharine smile that didn’t reach her eyes, the way her gaze kept slipping past us to inventory our belongings. “Just one little thing,” she’d said, her voice taking on that particular tone busybodies reserve for delivering bad news they secretly enjoy. “The HOA has this teensy rule about driveway parking…”
We laughed it off. Big mistake.
At 5:17 AM on Wednesday, the sound of hydraulic lifts jerked us from sleep. Through the blinds, we watched in disbelief as tow trucks hooked up our vehicles. And there stood Lindsey, wrapped in a monogrammed robe, sipping her latte with the smug satisfaction of someone who’d just won a major battle.
Right up until we pointed out the discreet government insignia on my sedan.
The federal agent who appeared on her doorstep the next morning could have stepped straight from central casting – dark suit, mirrored shades, voice like gravel. “Ma’am,” he said, flipping open his badge with practiced ease, “you’ve just compromised an active investigation.” Watching Lindsey’s carefully constructed facade crumble as he detailed the $25,000 in operational damages was better than morning coffee.
