“We run a tight ship,” she told Elijah. “Your moving truck stayed past curfew by two minutes. I’ll let it go because you’re new. But compliance makes good neighbors.”

“I appreciate the warning.”

“And you’ll need to submit the Mustang for an exterior-appearance review.”

“It’s parked inside my garage.”

“Yes, but people may see it when the door is open.”

Elijah waited, expecting her to hear herself. She did not.

“I’ll read the bylaws,” he said.

That afternoon, Sandra Mills walked across the lawn with a paper plate of lemon bars. Sandra was a retired school principal whose voice could quiet an auditorium without a microphone. She had lived beside Elijah’s new house for fourteen years and had learned to distinguish harmless eccentricity from organized intimidation.

“Did Vivien welcome you?” she asked.

“She brought a book.”

“She likes books as long as she’s the only one who gets to interpret them.”

Elijah laughed.

Sandra did not.

“Keep copies of everything she sends you,” she said. “I’m serious.”

When Elijah asked why, Sandra looked toward Vivien’s house.

“Because she doesn’t just like being right. She likes people being unable to prove she’s wrong.”

At the time, Elijah considered it ordinary neighborhood politics. He had spent years dealing with public complaints, angry council meetings, and men whose confidence rose whenever a camera appeared. He could handle a difficult HOA president.

He was wrong about one thing.

He assumed Vivien’s power was limited to sending annoying letters.

CHAPTER 3: THE KEYS

Logan Hartman appeared on a Thursday afternoon while Elijah was polishing the Mustang’s chrome.

“That’s a monster,” Logan said, walking straight into the garage. He wore white designer sneakers, expensive sunglasses, and a sweatshirt with the logo of a private driving club. “Boss 429, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Can I sit in it?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

Logan ran a hand along the fender. “I have my license. Give me the keys for ten minutes. I won’t leave the neighborhood.”

“No.”

The boy blinked. People evidently did not answer him in one syllable very often.

“You haven’t even seen me drive.”

“I don’t need to.”

“My dad can cover whatever happens.”

“The car isn’t for sale, and it isn’t for loan.”

Logan studied Elijah’s face, searching for a sign that the answer was negotiable. When he found none, irritation replaced charm.

“My family practically built this neighborhood.”

“I’m glad you like living here.”

“I’m saying my dad pays more in association dues than you probably pay in taxes.”

Elijah laid the polishing cloth on his workbench. “That doesn’t buy him the keys to my car.”

Logan’s lips parted. He had the expression of a boy who had pushed against a door and discovered it was made of concrete.