That was when I noticed Vivian's BMW.

Every morning, it drove past my house.

Slowly.

Fifteen miles per hour.

Vivian would hold her phone against the passenger window and photograph my property.

"Why does that woman keep taking pictures of our house?" Zoe asked one morning.

"I wish I knew."

A few days later, Dolores, an elderly woman who lived two houses down, pulled me aside.

Her voice dropped.

"She's marked you."

"What?"

"Vivian."

Dolores glanced toward the street.

The BMW was approaching.

"She's marked you now."

"What happens when she marks someone?"

Dolores sighed.

"She doesn't stop."

Then she told me about the family who had lived in my house before me.

A young couple with a baby.

Vivian had harassed them over sprinkler schedules.

Then trash cans.

Then flower beds.

Then the color of their curtains.

"Forty-seven violations in six months," Dolores said.

"Forty-seven?"

"They finally sold the house."

I looked at Vivian's BMW disappearing around the corner.

"Why doesn't anyone stop her?"

Dolores gave me a sad smile.

"People get tired."

I didn't understand then.

I would soon.

Because Vivian wasn't just enforcing rules.

She was creating fear.

And her son had been watching her do it his entire life.

Trevor Ashworth had learned a very dangerous lesson:

If your mother believes she owns the neighborhood, maybe you can convince yourself that you own the world.

Two weeks after the garden gnome violation, Vivian arrived at my house at eight in the morning.

I was still in my pajamas.

The doorbell rang three times.

I opened the door.

Vivian stood on my porch holding a clipboard, measuring tape, and digital camera.

Behind her stood Trevor.

He was nineteen, maybe twenty.

Designer clothes.

Expensive sneakers.

Perfect haircut.

Smirk.

He looked like someone who had never been told no.

"Mr. Rodriguez," Vivian said. "I'm conducting a routine property compliance inspection."

"Routine inspection?"

"Yes."

"Since when?"

"Since always."

I leaned against the door frame.

"Show me where the bylaws give you permission to inspect my private property."

Her smile vanished.

"The general maintenance clause gives me authority."

"Which section?"

She ignored the question and walked into my yard.

Trevor followed.

I stepped outside.

"Don't."

Vivian turned.

"Excuse me?"

"You don't have permission to enter my property."

"This is an HOA community."

"That doesn't make my yard public property."

Trevor laughed.

"Nice pajamas."

I looked at him.

"Nice trespassing."

His smile disappeared.

Vivian began measuring things.

"Trash cans visible from the street."

"They're behind the fence."

"Violation."

"My hose is properly coiled."

"Violation."

She photographed my windows.

"Oxidized screens."

"They're eight years old."

"Violation."

Then she pointed toward the driveway.

"Oil stain."

"That's smaller than a quarter."

"Violation."

I stepped between her and my front door.

"Show me the rule."

Vivian's face turned red.

"You are being extremely difficult."

"No. I'm asking you to follow the rules you're supposedly enforcing."

Trevor stepped forward.

"You can't talk to my mother like that."

"Your mother is a volunteer HOA officer."

"She runs this place."

"No. She doesn't."

He laughed.

"You have no idea who you're messing with."

"Actually, I think I do."

He looked at me for several seconds.

Then he took a photograph of my electrical meter.

Then my license plate.

Then my front door.

"Why are you photographing those?"

"Official HOA business."

"Get off my property."

Trevor smiled.

"We'll see."

That afternoon, my phone rang.

City code enforcement.

"Mr. Rodriguez, we received a complaint concerning possible unlicensed electrical work."

My stomach tightened.

"I've done some electrical upgrades."

"Are you licensed?"

"I'm an electrician."

There was a pause.

"We'll send an inspector."

The inspector arrived Monday.

He spent an hour examining my work.

Finally, he smiled.

"Everything is fine."

"Who reported me?"

"Anonymous complaint."

"Can you tell me who?"

"No."

He gathered his paperwork.

"Between you and me, though, this is the third complaint we've received about this property in two weeks."

I stared at him.

"Third?"

"Same anonymous caller."

Now I knew.

Vivian.

She couldn't control me through legitimate rules.

So she had started looking for other weapons.

The violations became constant.

Mailbox.

Garden gnome.

Trash cans.

Garden hose.

Window screens.

Driveway stain.

American flag.

Noise.

Vehicle appearance.

Every few days, another envelope appeared.

The fines increased.

Fifty dollars.

Seventy-five.

One hundred.

I started documenting everything.