“The answer is still no, Logan,” Elijah replied, steady and firm.
One of the boys, a bulky teenager wearing a football jersey, stepped forward.
“Come on, man. Don’t be such a hard case. What’s it going to hurt?”
Elijah straightened. His voice carried the quiet authority of two decades in law enforcement.
“You boys need to go home. This conversation is over.”
They lingered long enough for Logan to throw him a glare that promised he was not finished. Then they finally left.
An hour later, Vivien returned, dragging her husband, Gregory Hartman, along with her. Gregory looked miserable and clearly did not want to be there, but Vivien was already in full attack mode.
“You threatened my son and his friends,” she snapped. “Gregory is a lawyer. We could sue you for emotional distress.”
Gregory winced but said nothing. Elijah already knew he was a tax attorney who probably had not entered a courtroom in years.
“I asked them to leave my property,” Elijah said calmly. “That is within my rights.”
Vivien’s eyes narrowed.
“We’ll see what the HOA board has to say about this.”
She spun on one heel and stormed down the driveway. Gregory followed with an apologetic shrug.
Elijah did not bother watching them leave. He already knew the matter was far from over.
The next HOA meeting became a spectacle. Elijah did not attend, but his next-door neighbor, Sandra Mills, filled him in the following morning. According to Sandra, Vivien had stood before the board for forty full minutes warning members about the “dangerous element” that had moved into Maple Ridge Estates. She had even brought a PowerPoint presentation about street-racing culture.
Sandra laughed as she told him, “She actually called you a hooligan. I reminded her that the only people causing trouble were her and Logan. She did not appreciate that.”
The harassment intensified.
Elijah began finding notes tucked beneath his windshield wipers. His garbage cans were mysteriously knocked over every collection day. A city notice even appeared claiming his grass was half an inch too long. Every week brought another petty jab.
Then came the Saturday morning when everything boiled over.
Elijah sat in his kitchen with coffee in hand, enjoying the quiet, until he heard voices outside. Looking through the window, he saw Logan and the same two friends taking selfies beside the Mustang through the garage window.
Elijah placed his cup on the counter and stepped outside.
“Logan, you need to leave. Now.”
“It’s just pictures, bro,” Logan said. “They’re for Instagram. My followers love cars like this.”
“Get off my property. I won’t ask again.”
Logan’s cheeks turned red.
“You know what? Forget you. That car should be mine anyway. You’re too old to appreciate it. You probably can’t even drive it properly.”
