Dolores Fitch used a key she was never supposed to kee......
She wore a navy blazer, pearls, and a smile sharp enough to cut drywall. Her silver hair was pinned perfectly, her clipboard hugged to her chest like a badge. She looked past me first, not at me. Past my coffee. Past my bare feet. Past the framed photo of my grandkids on the entry table. Her eyes swept my living room like she was inspecting a hotel room before checkout.
“Good morning, Garrett,” she said. “I’m just checking on a few things.”
My hand tightened around the mug.
Behind me, the coffee went cold before I could drink it.
“Dolores,” I said carefully, “you walked into my house.”
She laughed softly, like I had misunderstood my own front door.
“The covenants allow reasonable access for inspection.”
“With notice.”
“I texted.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Her smile flickered.
Only for a second.
Then she looked toward the hallway and made a note on her clipboard.
“We’ll need to discuss the decorative mailbox, the deck dimensions, and the lights you’ve installed outside. This neighborhood has standards.”
That was how Dolores talked. Not like a neighbor. Not like an elected volunteer. Like a woman who had spent years turning other people’s homes into assignments she got to grade.
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