Then came May. The weather warmed. I had not yet scheduled the tile replacement or the pool refilling.
On a Tuesday afternoon, while I was working from my home office, I heard heavy knocking at my front door. I checked the front porch camera. Standing there was Sandra Fielding, looking remarkably indignant, flanked by two uniformed county police officers.
I picked up my heavy, well-organized documentation binder, and opened the door.
"Ma'am," the taller officer said, looking slightly uncomfortable. "We received a call regarding destruction of property. This woman claims you have maliciously drained and damaged her swimming pool."
I looked at Sandra. She stood with her arms crossed, nodding sharply. "She drained it out of pure spite," Sandra told the officers. "It's a shared neighborhood amenity, but it's on my property line, and she ruined it."
The audacity was so pure it was almost clinical. She had trespassed so often, and desired the pool so badly, that her brain had simply rewritten reality. She truly believed, in that moment, that the pool belonged to her.
"Officers," I said, keeping my voice entirely level. "The pool is entirely on my property. It was built by me, paid for by me, and is maintained by me. Ms. Fielding has been repeatedly warned about trespassing."
"That's a lie!" Sandra shouted. "Check the property lines! It's mine!"
"May we step into the backyard?" the second officer asked.
I led them through the house to the back patio. The officers looked at the drained concrete basin, then at the obvious property line demarcated by the wooden privacy fence—the same fence with the shattered steel brackets where Sandra had forced her way through.
I set the binder on the patio table.