From that moment, I knew we were marked.
The days that followed, we'd catch her circling like a shark. Sometimes, she'd stand at the corner of our lot, scribbling notes. Other times, she'd stop neighbors mid-walk, gesturing toward our house with wild hand motions. I couldn't hear the words, but I didn't need to. Her mouth was moving fast, and her eyes burned holes in our siding.
At night, I joked with my wife, "She probably has a file cabinet labeled with our names already."
My wife would just smile—that patient smile, the one she used when she knew something I didn't. She wasn't rattled. If anything, she was waiting, watching, documenting. That's one of the first times I noticed how meticulous she was. She kept a little notebook tucked in the kitchen drawer. Every letter we received, she date-stamped. Every odd encounter, she jotted down: photos of envelopes, recordings of conversations, even timestamped screenshots of emails. At the time, I thought she was just being thorough. Later, I realized it was second nature, her training surfacing in everyday life.
Meanwhile, I played the fool, acting like Karen's antics were just good comedy. But under the jokes, I felt it: the tension building. She wasn't done. People like Karen never are. And sure enough, before long, the petty notes and smug looks turned into something more—something that would bring patrol cars to my curb and set the stage for the day Karen would finally realize she'd picked the wrong neighbor.
It didn't take long for Karen to make her move. One Saturday morning, my wife and I were outside finally tackling the front yard. She was trimming the overgrown hedges while I was locked in combat with a lawn mower that seemed to resent me as much as Karen did. The thing sputtered, coughed, and stalled every five feet, but I was determined: fresh start, fresh lawn.
That's when I heard the sound of heels on pavement: sharp, decisive clicks like a drum roll announcing trouble. I looked up, and there she was: red blazer, clipboard under her arm, marching toward us with the confidence of a five-star general.
"Good morning," she called out, her tone anything but friendly. "We need to discuss some concerns regarding your property."
I killed the mower, wiped the sweat from my forehead, and forced a smile. "Morning, Karen. What can we do for you today?"
Her eyes narrowed at my use of her name. She wanted "President Morgan" or "Madame Chairwoman" or whatever grand title she'd given herself, but she didn't correct me. Not yet.