"She sent the same letter to half a dozen residents," he said. "Somebody dropped theirs off at the sheriff's office this morning."
I poured him coffee. "She's doubled down."
"She's not just doubling down," he replied. "She's entering criminal territory. This isn't just harassment now; this is impersonation of authority and attempted collection of fraudulent fees."
"Can we charge her?" I asked.
"Not yet," he said. "But we can look into it."
That was the balance we always had to strike: professional distance, procedural caution. He handled things by the book, and I respected that.
He set the letter down. "Dad, she's unraveling. Be careful."
"I'm always careful," I said.
He gave me a look.
"Okay, I'm usually careful."
We shared a laugh, but concern hung in the air like humidity before a thunderstorm.
The next strange event came that night. My motion sensor flicked on at 11:47 p.m. I checked the camera feed, expecting a raccoon.
It wasn't. It was Karen.
She wore a reflective vest, cargo pants, gloves, and carried what looked suspiciously like a tape measure, a clipboard, and a stud finder. She paced back and forth along the perimeter of my driveway like a surveyor on a very personal mission. At one point, she knelt and measured the angle of my truck's front tire. She scribbled furiously. Then she measured its distance from the lawn. Scribble, scribble. Then she held the stud finder against the fender like she expected it to reveal state secrets.
I stepped outside onto the porch, arms crossed. "Evening, Karen," I called.
She gasped and dropped her tape measure. "I... I was conducting an assessment!" she stammered.
"At midnight?"
"Timing is irrelevant when harmony is at stake!"
"Karen, get off my property."