Jack and I had barely settled into our temporary rental when Lindsey, our neighbor, showed up with cookies and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her welcome quickly turned into a warning: the HOA allowed only one car per driveway. We had two. Both fit. But she insisted—rules were rules.
Three days later, before sunrise, we woke to the sound of tow trucks. Both our cars were being hauled away. No notice. No warning. Just Lindsey, standing smugly in her bathrobe, sipping coffee like she’d won a prize.
But she hadn’t.
What she didn’t know was that both vehicles were part of an active federal operation. A tiny sticker on the windshield marked them as government property. Her meddling had just cost the agency $25,000—and compromised two undercover officers.
I made the call that night.
The next morning, a black SUV pulled up. A federal agent stepped out, rang her doorbell, and calmly informed her she was under investigation for interfering with a classified operation. Her face drained of color. Her mug slipped from her hands and shattered.
Jack leaned in and said, “Next time, maybe just bake the cookies.”
She never looked at us again. And those pristine hedges she once trimmed with pride? They wilted—just like her sense of control.
