The tongs froze in Daniel’s hand as the wooden gate of his backyard slammed open, the hinges screaming in protest.
Saturday afternoons in Cedar Grove were supposed to be sacred. After years of grinding through double shifts and sleeping in cramped, thin-walled apartments, thirty-two-year-old Daniel Brooks had finally secured his slice of the American Dream: a modest, single-story craftsman house at the end of Maple Court. He had just thrown a rack of ribs on the grill, surrounded by his three closest friends. Marcus was leaning against the deck railing with a beer, Javier was laughing at a terrible joke, and Owen was in the middle of debating the merits of charcoal over gas.
Then, she walked in.
She didn't knock. She didn't announce herself. A woman in her late fifties, wearing a pristine cream-colored blazer and oversized sunglasses, marched onto the grass as if she held the deed to the dirt beneath her expensive loafers. She held her smartphone out in front of her like a weapon.
"I’m Patricia Hale," she announced, her voice slicing through the casual weekend atmosphere. "President of the Cedar Grove Homeowners Association."
Daniel slowly lowered his tongs. "Nice to meet you. But I don’t remember leaving the gate unlocked, let alone inviting you in."
Patricia didn't even blink. Her eyes darted around the yard, inspecting the patio furniture, the grill, and finally settling on the four men. "We received a complaint about excessive noise and unruly behavior."
Marcus glanced over at the small Bluetooth speaker sitting quietly on the patio table. "Ma'am, we haven’t even turned the music on yet."
"This neighborhood has standards," she snapped, ignoring Marcus entirely and glaring at Daniel. "We do not tolerate rowdy fraternities treating our backyards like cheap dive bars."