I bolted upright in bed, heart thundering, still half trapped in a dream where my ex-wife’s lawyer was reading off numbers I didn’t have and mistakes I couldn’t undo. For a second I didn’t know where I was. Then the second sound hit: a long, grinding screech of metal that made my teeth ache.
I stumbled out of bed so fast I nearly tripped over my jeans. Barefoot. Pajama pants twisted at the waist. No shirt. My house was still dim, the world outside washed in that pale pre-sunrise blue that makes everything look colder than it is.
The security app on my phone lit up with a motion alert.
Driveway.
I tapped it with shaking fingers.
And there she was.
Victoria Peton—HOA president, neighborhood tyrant, self-appointed queen of Willowbrook Estates—standing beside the pickup truck in my driveway like she owned it, like she owned me, like she owned the sunrise.
She raised a crowbar over her shoulder.
