"Relax. He knows what this town is like. He probably assumed it involved Beverly anyway."
The wave of chaos continued. More HOA supporters arrived. More cameras appeared. Someone brought a cooler of snacks, turning the protest into a tailgate party. One HOA lady handed out pamphlets titled, Protect our community from hostile businesses.
I flipped one open. Inside there were bullet points accusing us of gas pump discrimination, emotional harassment, unfair fuel practices, and cultural insensitivity toward HOA residents.
"What does that even mean?" I asked aloud.
Tessa peeked over my shoulder. "It means Beverly owns a thesaurus."
The situation escalated further when another car arrived—this one a shiny black sedan with tinted windows. For a moment, the entire crowd went silent. Even Beverly lowered her megaphone.
The car door opened and outstepped Sheriff Cole in full uniform, sunglasses on, arms crossed. He walked over slowly as if he were approaching a gathering of raccoons who might bolt at any sudden movement.
The HOA supporters murmured. "Is he here to arrest the gas guy? I bet if Beverly insists, he has to."
"No, no, he's here to protect HOA rights," Tessa whispered. "He's here because I texted him, too."
I stared at her. "You what?"
"Look, I invited everyone important. If Beverly wants an audience, she's getting one."
Cole didn't say anything at first. He looked over the crowd. He looked at the signs. He looked at Beverly. Then he sighed so loudly the whole neighborhood heard it.
"All right," he said. "What now?"
Beverly marched up to him, megaphone nearly clipping his chin. "Officer," she declared. "This business is engaged in discriminatory conduct against our HOA. They are targeting residents. They are denying services. We demand justice."
Cole blinked. "Ma'am, they told you yesterday to pay for your gas."
"This is bigger than gas," Beverly insisted dramatically. "This is about community safety."