Across the street, the curtains in Meredith Vaughn's front window moved.
Just barely. Just enough.
Tomorrow, then. Seven-sixteen.
The morning of the tow started like every other morning that month, except I was standing at the front window with coffee in my hand and my phone on the counter, fully charged. The sign was out there on its metal stake at the foot of the driveway, catching the early light: PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO UNAUTHORIZED PARKING. VEHICLES MAY BE TOWED AT OWNER'S EXPENSE. Same as it had been for over two weeks. I read the time off the camera feed: 7:14. I set my mug down and waited.
At 7:16 the Mercedes turned onto the street. I heard it before I saw it, that low engine note the Germans engineer into their cars. Dark blue, spotless, chrome wheels, windows tinted nearly black. Tyler drove it past my driveway the way he always did, slow, and stopped with the nose exactly across the apron of my garage. Exactly the same spot as always. The 24th time in 19 days.
At 7:17 he opened the door and stood there looking at the sign. I watched him read it, his head tilted the way people's do when they read something they consider a joke. The designer jacket was on again. The earbuds were in.
At 7:18 he laughed — not a smile, a laugh, head back, one hand on the car door. Then he shut the door, locked the Mercedes with a chirp of the fob, and at 7:19 he started walking up the street toward his mother's house. He never once looked at my garage door.
I called the non-emergency line. I gave them my name and said I needed a tow for a vehicle blocking my driveway. I told the dispatcher the car had been there 24 times over 19 days, that I'd documented every instance, that I had a posted notice. She asked if I'd called before. I said I hadn't, and that I was done being patient. She said she'd note the file and I was authorized to have it removed.
Then I called Marcus Hill. He answered on the second ring, like tow drivers do at that hour. I told him what I needed. He said he'd be there in twenty minutes. He asked if the keys were out of the car. I said they were — the driver always walked away. He said wheel-lift it was, and not to touch the car myself before he got there.
I stood in the garage and worked. It was the only thing to do. Frank's truck was waiting on the lift for a water pump, and idle hands make mornings longer. I worked with the door open so I could see the street, and I kept one eye on the camera monitor, on the little red timestamp crawling forward. 7:24. 7:31. The Mercedes sat there gleaming, and the neighborhood was quiet in that early way, birds arguing in the oaks.
At 7:43 Marcus turned in. His truck backed up slow, the way he does everything, and he angled it so the wheel-lift faced the Mercedes. He got out, big and gray and unhurried, and walked the length of the car once, checking the tires, the clearance, the tow points. He waved. I walked out to meet him.
"I'll need to see your ID and the business address match before I hook it," he said. It was routine. I handed him my driver's license and the registration from the garage wall, framed and yellowed. He nodded.
At 7:46, right as Marcus was bending to check the front wheels, Tyler came running down the street. I heard the sneakers slapping the pavement before I saw him. He came off his mother's driveway at a full sprint, no jacket, just a T-shirt and those expensive shoes, and he stopped hard in front of the truck, hands out.
"What the hell are you doing?" he said.
Marcus straightened up slow. "Impounding a vehicle from a private business driveway, sir."
"You have no idea who my mother is," Tyler said. He was breathing hard. His face had gone red around the edges.
"I know who your mother is," I said. "Everyone on this street knows who your mother is."
"You touch that car and I'll sue you," he said, pointing at Marcus. "Both of you. That's my car and you can't just take it."
Marcus looked at me. I said, "Keep going. The paperwork is filed."
Tyler pulled out his phone. His hands were shaking enough that he fumbled it once. He dialed, held it to his ear, and when somebody picked up his posture changed.
"Mom," he said. "He's towing the car."