"Of course," I said.
He opened the briefcase with exaggerated care and pulled out a stack of papers. "These are official cease and desist orders. You've been served."
I skimmed the top page. The grammar was worse than the Comic Sans letter. "Doug, you know this isn't valid, right? This road's mine. The trench is on my land. You don't have jurisdiction here."
He cleared his throat. "Well, uh, the HOA has certain shared—"
"Doug," I interrupted gently, "do you even have a law degree?"
He froze. "Working on it. Community college." He nodded slowly. "Night classes."
"Thought so." I handed the papers back. "Tell Clare that if she wants to keep playing attorney, she should at least hire one who's passed the bar, not the smoothie bar."
Doug blinked, unsure whether to be offended or take notes. He mumbled something about "reassessing legal frameworks," turned around, and immediately scraped the bumper of his Prius on a tree root while trying to leave.
Derek leaned on the fence, laughing until tears ran down his face. "This is better than cable!"
But I wasn't laughing. Not entirely. Because if there's one thing I've learned about people like Clare, it's that they don't quit. They regroup. They recruit. And sooner or later, they find some loophole to exploit.
That night, as I sat on the porch with Boomer's head resting on my boot, I stared out at the moonlit trench. The edges were crisp, the dirt perfectly dry. It looked less like a hole and more like a statement carved into the earth.
Still, Derek's earlier words echoed in my mind: She'll find something. These HOA types always do.
I didn't sleep much that night. My brain kept turning over the same worry: old land deeds, old maps, forgotten easements. What if there was something buried in the paperwork that could give her a foothold?
By dawn, I had my answer. I wasn't going to wait to find out. I grabbed my truck keys, packed a thermos of coffee, and headed straight for the county clerk's office. If Clare wanted a war, I was going to make sure I knew every inch of the battlefield.
The county clerk's office was one of those buildings that smelled like old paper and slow time. Dust motes floated in the morning sunlight cutting through the blinds, and somewhere behind the counter, an ancient printer hummed like it was powered by spite and duct tape.
I gave the clerk my best polite smile. "Morning, ma'am. I'm looking for all recorded easements and property agreements tied to Rogers Ranch, parcel number 47B, bordering the Whispering Pines development."