It tore across the driveway with the confidence of somebody used to being obeyed by smaller people in smaller situations.
“This house is rented! Leave now or I call the police!”
I stepped out slowly. My boots hit the driveway I had paid for one dull paycheck at a time. Gravel shifted under my heel. The truck door shut behind me with a plain, ordinary sound, but it seemed to echo. There she was on my porch, one hand clutching a clipboard, the other already planted on one hip as if she had practiced the pose in mirrors. Mid-fifties maybe, sharp haircut, expensive sandals, oversized sunglasses shoved up into her hair. Around her neck hung an HOA badge with plastic lamination and a strip of authority she wore like a medal earned under fire. She had the grin of someone who believed she had already won before the contest started.
Behind her, through the narrow slice of front window between the curtains, I caught movement. A man. Pale face. Wide eyes. He was inside my living room.
My living room.
