I rigged up extra locks, double-checked the windows, and told my nearest neighbor, Jim, to keep an eye out.
"She's bold," I warned him. "Don't be surprised if you see her snooping while I'm gone."
Jim chuckled. "That woman thinks she's queen of the cul-de-sac, but don't worry, I'll watch. And Lawson," he lowered his voice, "good thing you've got Max."
On the morning I left, Max sat tall at the door as I packed my truck. His expression was serious, almost military. I knelt down, ruffled his fur, and whispered, "Protect the house, boy. Don't let her win." His tail thumped once against the floor.
As I drove off, I glanced in the mirror. Karen's car was parked two houses down. She sat inside, sunglasses on, pretending to scroll her phone. She thought she was subtle. She wasn't.
The next 48 hours were tense, even from miles away.
Jim texted me the first night: She was snooping around again. Walked up to your porch, pretended to check the railing. Max barked. She bolted.
The second night: Lights on near your place. Didn't look like you. Max raising hell.
I clenched my fists. It was happening. She was circling, testing, waiting.
On the third day, the message I dreaded came: Pretty sure she went inside. Saw her slip through the gate. Max went silent after that. Don't know what's going on.
My stomach dropped. Karen had crossed the line. She wasn't snooping anymore; she was trespassing.
I gunned my truck back toward Pine Ridge, every mile crawling slower than the last. My mind raced through scenarios: Karen rifling through my cabinets, planting fake evidence, maybe even trying to provoke Max. But what she didn't understand, what she could never understand, was that Max wasn't just a pet. He wasn't just a dog. He was a guardian, trained for moments exactly like this.
And by the time I got home, I had a feeling she'd already learned that the hard way.
By the time I turned onto Pine Ridge Drive, my knuckles were white around the steering wheel. The sun had dipped low, casting that strange twilight glow where everything looks half-real. My headlights swept across familiar lawns, hedges trimmed to regulation perfection, and then finally onto my own property.