…two men in dark suits stepped out, adjusting their ties with unnerving synchronization.
I looked back down at Helen. The woman who had spent six relentless months documenting our “infractions”—ranging from a supposedly unauthorized shade of beige on our trim to my six-year-old’s tricycle being left on the porch for two hours—was now trembling on my welcome mat. The cherry pie in her hands was shaking so violently I thought the crust would shatter.
“Please,” Helen whispered, her voice entirely stripped of the shrill, authoritative tone that used to terrorize our cul-de-sac. “They’ve been following me since Tuesday. You have to let me in.”
I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms. “Helen, you slapped us with so many bogus fines we had to sell our house at a loss to avoid a lien. You stood on my lawn and cheered when the moving truck arrived. Why on earth would I help you?”
“Because you’re a good person!” she pleaded, tears streaking through her foundation. “And because I brought pie!”
I glanced past her. The two men were crossing the street now, their eyes locked on my porch. They didn’t look like cartel hitmen, but they didn’t look like friendly neighborhood watch members, either. They moved with the cold, calculated purpose of people who ruin lives for a living.
“Who are they, Helen?” I asked, my voice flat.
She swallowed hard. “The new HOA board president hired a forensic accountant. I… I might have used some of the association’s reserve funds.”
“Some?”
“Eighty thousand dollars,” she blurted out, her eyes darting wildly. “But it was for the neighborhood! I upgraded the entrance gates! I hired that private security patrol to keep out the riff-raff!”
“You embezzled eighty grand to hire mall cops to harass my family?” I let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “And who are the guys in the suits?”
“Federal investigators,” she squeaked. “Wire fraud. They’re doing an audit on the landscaping contracts I signed with my brother-in-law’s company. If they serve me with this subpoena, my assets get frozen. Please, just let me hide in your guest room. Just for the weekend!”
The men were at the end of my driveway now. One of them reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a thick, manila envelope.
I looked at Helen. I looked at the men. Then, I looked at the cherry pie.
“You know, Helen,” I said slowly, reaching out and gently taking the glass dish from her trembling hands. “My new neighborhood doesn’t have an HOA. We can paint our houses whatever color we want. We can leave our trash cans out an extra day. It’s incredibly peaceful.”
“That’s wonderful,” she sobbed, stepping forward to cross the threshold. “Now please, let me inside.”
“But,” I continued, planting my feet firmly to block her path, “the one rule I do have for my own home is absolutely no felons allowed.”
Her eyes went wide. “What?”
“It’s a strict policy. Zero tolerance.” I offered her a polite, tight-lipped smile—an exact replica of the one she gave my wife the day she handed us our final eviction notice. “Enjoy the audit, Helen.”
I stepped back, firmly shutting the heavy oak door in her face. The deadbolt slid into place with a satisfying, metallic thud.
Through the peephole, I watched the scene unfold. The two suits stepped onto the porch. Helen spun around, looking like a cornered raccoon. The taller man handed her the thick envelope, said a few words that made her knees buckle, and turned away.
I walked into my kitchen, cut myself a massive slice of cherry pie, and sat down at the table. It was, without a doubt, the sweetest thing I had ever tasted.
