"There he is," she announced. "That's the car. He's been racing it up and down the street all week, blasting music, disturbing the peace. I saw him speeding earlier tonight. I had to call for the safety of the children."
The way she said the children made my blood boil, like she was auditioning for sainthood while throwing me under the bus.
I turned back to the officers. "That's not true. I just got home from work. I've been inside for ten minutes. You can check my microwave if you want."
The taller officer glanced between me and Patricia. "Sir, do you own the red Mustang in the driveway?"
"Yes," I said firmly.
Patricia let out a little laugh—all sugar and poison. "Well, of course he does. Who else would? That thing doesn't belong here."
The shorter cop raised his hand, signaling her to step back, but she kept hovering close, her words dripping into the night like venom.
"Look, I know what I saw. He peels out. He revs the engine. It's disruptive. I've documented it." She waved her phone like it was a badge. "He's a menace."
I felt my jaw clench so tight it hurt. "With all due respect, officers, I've done nothing wrong. I drive the speed limit. I keep my music low. This is harassment, plain and simple."
One of the cops sighed. "Do you have any witnesses?"
Before I could answer, the sound of a screen door creaked open. Greg, my cargo-shorts neighbor, stepped onto his porch.
"Hey," he called out. "That's nonsense. Marcus hasn't been speeding. He treats that car like it's made of glass. You should be asking why Patricia is always filming him like some wannabe detective."
Patricia's head snapped toward him, her smile gone in an instant. "Greg, mind your business!"