All I wanted was a peaceful place where my daughter and I could finally feel settled. Instead, shortly after we moved in, I found myself dealing with a neighbor determined to make us regret coming.

The moving truck disappeared down the road a little after two in the afternoon. I remained in the driveway with a cardboard box resting against my hip, looking up at the small house that now belonged to me.

Paint peeled from the siding in delicate curls. The left side of the porch dipped slightly, as though the house were leaning closer to hear a secret. It was modest and worn, but it was ours.

My eight-year-old daughter, Olivia, had already thrown off her sneakers and was racing barefoot through the tall grass behind the house. She stretched her arms toward the lake as though welcoming it personally.

“Mom, there’s a frog,” she yelled. “A real one! I named him Kevin!”

“Kevin the frog stays outside,” I called back, laughing. “He’s a wild animal.”

I lowered the box onto the porch step and allowed myself to breathe.

My father had left me the lake house when he died six months earlier. For the first time in years as a single mother, I would no longer be sending rent money to someone else.

Olivia and I had lived in a cramped one-bedroom apartment for so long that she considered having a hallway a luxury.

Now she had a yard, a frog named Kevin, and a bedroom window overlooking real trees.

Gravel shifted beneath my shoes as I returned to the car.

The driveway stretched narrowly along the side of the house, barely wide enough for my aging blue Chevrolet. It was the only parking space available. There was no garage, no extra lot, and nowhere else to leave the car.

I turned and noticed an older man in a faded cap resting his arms on the fence between our properties.

His face was weathered but friendly, and he carried himself with an easy calm.

“Hello, I’m Harold,” he said. “Your dad and I used to fish off that dock back there. He talked about you all the time. He mentioned you’d get the house.”

“Samantha,” I replied, stepping over to shake his hand.

“And that barefoot tornado is Olivia.”

“She’s a keeper,” my new neighbor said, smiling.

He glanced toward the porch.

“That railing’s about ready to give up on life. I’ve got tools. You just say the word.”

“Retired contractor, ma’am. If I don’t fix things, I go stir-crazy.”

I laughed, and some of the tightness in my chest faded.

Then I sensed it—that uncomfortable tingling at the back of my neck that comes when someone is staring.

I looked uphill.

The neighboring house stood above the others on the street. It was large, elegant, and equipped with a second-floor balcony overlooking the lake. A woman in a silk wrap stood there holding a cup like a royal scepter.

She neither smiled nor waved.

Instead, she stared at my Chevrolet as though it had committed a personal offense.

“Morning,” I called, trying to sound friendly.

She waited before responding.

“Could you park it somewhere else?” she finally asked, motioning toward my car with two fingers. “It’s ruining my view of the lake.”

I stared at her.

“I’m sorry, but this is my driveway. I have nowhere else to park.”

“That’s Valerie,” Harold murmured beside me.

Valerie tilted her head without changing her expression.

“Well,” she said, rolling her eyes, “I don’t care. Park that piece of junk somewhere else. I don’t want to see that eyesore from my balcony.”

Then she turned, stepped inside, and closed the balcony door with a soft but deliberate click.

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