The Homeowner watched.
“Get off my driveway.”
She ignored him.
Another photograph.
“What are you doing?”
“Documenting evidence.”
He almost smiled.
“Evidence of what?”
“Possession of stolen property.”
The Homeowner’s expression changed.
Not much.
Enough.
“You should be careful with that sentence.”
The President lowered her phone.
“Is that a threat?”
“No.”
“It’s advice.”
She stepped toward him.
“You moved into this property after the owner died.”
“That’s false.”
“You didn’t own this house when the car belonged here.”
“Also false.”
The President raised her voice.
“You expect me to believe an elderly man gave you a classic Mustang worth tens of thousands of dollars?”
The Homeowner looked toward the car.
“Whether you believe it doesn’t matter.”
She laughed sharply.
“Oh, it matters now.”
She held up her phone.
“I called police.”
The Homeowner stared at her.
“You reported the car stolen?”
“Yes.”
“Knowing you have never owned it.”
“I reported suspicious possession.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
The President folded her arms.
“The police can sort it out.”
The Homeowner looked toward the street.
Across the road, a neighbor had stepped onto his porch.
Another curtain moved.
The scene was becoming public.
That was what she wanted.
He understood suddenly.
Not simply enforcement.
Performance.
She wanted the neighborhood to watch him questioned beside the car.
Maybe handcuffed.
Maybe the Mustang towed.
Maybe the rumors would do the rest.
The Homeowner stepped closer to the garage.
The President immediately moved into his path.
“You are not going anywhere.”
He stopped.
“Move.”
“No.”
“You are standing in front of my garage.”
“I am preserving the scene.”
He looked at her.
“You are trespassing.”
She laughed.
“I am HOA President.”
“You are still trespassing.”
Her smile disappeared.
“You people always think private property means you can do whatever you want.”
The Homeowner’s face became completely still.
Across the street, the neighbor stopped pretending not to listen.
The President realized how the sentence sounded.
She adjusted.
“I mean homeowners.”
The Homeowner said nothing.
That made it worse.
She pointed at the Mustang again.
“This car was never part of your purchase.”
“Wrong.”
“The garage inventory listed no vehicle.”
“Wrong.”
“You cannot just inherit property because you happened to be around an old man near the end of his life.”
The Homeowner’s jaw tightened.
Now she was speaking about someone he cared about.
The elderly previous owner had not been a helpless man waiting to be manipulated.
He had been stubborn.
Sharp.
Sarcastic.
And until his final months, fiercely independent.
The Homeowner had met him four years earlier while renting a house two streets over.
One Saturday morning, the Mustang stalled near the neighborhood entrance.
The old man stood over the open hood swearing at it.
The Homeowner stopped.
He had spent half his teenage years rebuilding engines with his uncle.
He recognized the problem quickly.
Loose ignition connection.
Twenty minutes later, the Mustang started.
The old man asked what he owed.
The Homeowner said nothing.
The next weekend, the old man appeared at his rental house with a case of beer and a box containing carburetor parts.
“You touched it once.”