She was grinning when we pulled into the driveway, convinced she’d already won.

By sunrise the next morning, that grin was gone.

Jack and I had barely spent a night in the rental. Small, single-story, tucked into a quiet suburban street. Tan bricks, green shutters, a lawn that looked like it had given up on life sometime in May. We weren’t staying long. Just a temporary assignment. Nothing fancy. Nothing worth noting.

We hadn’t even unpacked the coffee maker before the doorbell rang.

Jack groaned. “We don’t even have curtains yet.”

I peeked through the peephole. “Oh… looks like someone’s taking their job as neighbor very seriously.”

He peeked over my shoulder. “Yikes. She brought cookies.”

I opened the door.

There she was. Pastel pink cardigan, matching headband, white capris, and a smile so wide it almost hurt. But her eyes… they were busy. Too busy. Watching. Measuring. Scanning.

“Hi! I’m Lindsey,” she chirped. “I live right across the street. Just wanted to welcome you!”

She held out a tray of perfect chocolate chip cookies. Not a crumb out of place.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the tray.

Jack waved lazily. “Appreciate it.”

Her smile didn’t falter, but her eyes darted around like she was inspecting a crime scene.

“You folks settling in okay?” she asked, blinking a little too fast.

“Yeah, we just moved in yesterday.”

“Lovely area,” she said, voice syrupy. “Quiet, clean, very… orderly.”

Jack crossed his arms. “We’re just here for work. No trouble.”

“Oh, I’m sure!” Her tone sharpened ever so slightly. “Just one small thing…”

I could feel it coming. The shift from sugar to sour.

“Our HOA—very friendly, very firm—has a rule about cars. Only one per household in the driveway.”

I blinked. “One car?”

“Yes,” she said, tilting her head, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “No exceptions. Keeps the neighborhood looking… tidy.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “We’re not blocking the street. Both cars fit fine.”

“I know,” she said, voice tightening. “But still… two cars. One house. One driveway. One car.”

“We’re here temporarily,” I said. “Not permanent residents.”

Her smile stretched. “Rules apply to everyone. That’s the beauty of it.”

We closed the door.

“That was… intense,” Jack muttered.

“Like she expected to see a meth lab in the kitchen,” I whispered, setting the cookies down.

Three days later, I woke to an unfamiliar clatter.

Clank. Clang. Whirrr.

Jack sat up, rubbing his eyes. “What the—?”

I pulled the curtain back.

Two tow trucks. In our driveway. Half-lifting our cars into the air.

“HEY!” I shouted. “What the hell is happening?!”

One of the drivers didn’t even glance at us. “Violation of HOA rules. Only one car per home. Orders came in this morning.”

Jack’s face went red. “From who?”

That’s when I saw her. Lindsey. Lavender bathrobe, coffee mug in hand, arms crossed. Smile wider than before. Like she’d just won a championship.

I took a deep breath. “You realize you just signed off on a $25,000 mistake, right?”

Her grin faltered. “I… what do you mean?”

Jack didn’t say a word. I just nodded toward the tiny, nearly invisible sticker on the back windshield of my car.

Her eyes widened. Recognition flickered.

“What… is that?” she asked, voice thin.

I didn’t answer.

We turned and walked back inside, closing the door softly behind us.

Jack collapsed onto the couch, shaking his head. “She’s going to lose it over that sticker.”

I smiled. “She should.”

We didn’t even touch the cookies. They sat there, a peace offering turned irrelevant.

Later that night, I made a call. Quick, clipped, no room for mistakes.

“We’ve got a situation,” I said. “Civilian interference. Property tampering. Morning response needed.”

Pause. Then a calm voice: “Understood.” Click.

Jack looked at me. “Someone’s coming?”

I nodded. “Early.”

Before sunrise, we stepped outside. Right on cue, a black SUV rolled up the street.

A man stepped out. Crisp suit. White shirt. Shiny shoes. Dark sunglasses. Silent, precise.

He gave me a slight nod. I returned it.

We walked across the street together. Up her porch steps. I rang the doorbell.

The door creaked open. Lindsey blinked at us. Fluffy pink bathrobe. Blonde hair piled messily. Mug clutched like a shield.

“Um… hello?”

The man’s hand went into his jacket. Leather wallet. Badge. ID.

“Ma’am,” he said. Calm. Flat. Deadly. “You are now under investigation for interfering with an active federal operation.”

Her face went pale. “I—I don’t understand. What operation?”

“You initiated the towing of two marked government vehicles,” he said. “Disrupting an active investigation. Your actions caused $25,000 in damages.”

Her mug slipped from her hands. Shattered on the porch.

Jack stepped forward. Hoodie hands in pockets. “Next time, maybe don’t play sheriff of suburbia.”

She stared at the pieces like they might explain everything.

The agent nodded once. “You’ll be contacted. Do not leave the area. Do not contact anyone involved. Do not destroy any documents or records.”

Her mouth hung open.

I gave her one last look. “Next time… maybe just bake the cookies.”

We walked back across the street. Silence.

Her door stayed cracked. The blinds remained shut. Her perfect rose bushes? They never fully recovered.

And somewhere in the quiet, I could still hear the faint hum of her disbelief.