“And if I catch you taking pictures of my house again, I will make sure the county sheriff handles it.”

He did not move.

He stood there by his patio, his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at me through the gap in the wood.

My chest felt tight, the weight of his stare pushing me back toward the house.

I lowered the camera, my fingers cold against the plastic grip.

I retreated back into my kitchen and locked the sliding glass door.

The legal pad on Rachel Monroe’s desk remained blank while I wrote out the check.