“We’re a community, Mr. Grant. People share here.”

“Then he’ll understand when I say I am sharing a boundary.”

Gregory looked up at that. A small, unwilling smile crossed his face.

Vivien saw it and hardened. “I’ll be examining whether this vehicle complies with neighborhood standards.”

“Feel free to send any concern in writing.”

“You think paperwork protects you?”

“Usually helps everyone remember what happened.”

She left with the deliberate speed of someone afraid a second conversation might reveal an absence of actual authority.

But Gregory lingered at the end of the driveway, studying the Mustang more carefully than his wife had.

“That’s a rare one,” he said. “Still have the original body identification?”

Elijah looked at him. “My father kept the records.”

“Smart man. There are a lot of fakes out there.”

It sounded like harmless small talk.

Later, Elijah would remember that Gregory had not asked about the engine, the paint, or the price.

He had asked about the identifying numbers.

CHAPTER 4: A THOUSAND PAPER CUTS

The first warning arrived Monday: the Mustang’s paint was “incompatible with the visual calm of Maple Ridge Estates.” The second accused Elijah of excessive engine noise on a day when the car had not been started. A third described the Mustang as a potential commercial racing vehicle.

Each letter included a due date and a photograph cropped to make the vehicle look as though it were parked in the street instead of inside Elijah’s private garage.

He answered all three, citing the HOA rules. Not one provision supported Vivien’s claims.

He also asked the board secretary to preserve the original complaints, including the photographs and the identities of whoever had taken them.

Two warnings disappeared. The third was marked “under review.”

On Wednesday, someone moved his trash bins from the proper collection point and photographed them as a violation. On Thursday, a city grass-length complaint appeared in his mailbox, though the lawn service had mowed the day before. Friday brought a note beneath the Mustang’s windshield wiper: IT DOESN’T BELONG HERE.

Sandra saw him reading it.

“She’s moving faster than usual,” she said.