He smirked.
“Because somebody reported a suspicious person on this property.”
I took a breath.
“Did that person identify me as an intruder?”
His expression hardened.
“I'm asking the questions.”
I nodded.
“Then please ask one I can answer.”
That was when his face changed.
For a moment, he looked almost surprised.
Then the surprise became anger.
“You think you're clever?”
“No.”
“You think you can stand here and tell me how to do my job?”
“I'm telling you I own this home.”
He glanced toward the luxury SUV parked in my driveway.
Then toward my designer handbag.
His eyes narrowed.
“Funny. People who own houses like this usually know how to act when the police arrive.”
I stared at him.
For a moment, I considered saying the words that would change the conversation instantly.
I'm your new police chief.
But I didn't.
Not yet.
Because I wanted to understand what he believed justified his conduct before he knew my position.
And because no citizen should have to reveal a powerful job title to be treated with basic respect.
I kept my voice steady.
“Officer, my identification is available. If you want to verify my residence, we can do that.”
He looked toward the green garden hose lying beside the flower bed.
Then he smiled.
It was a strange expression.
Not amused.
Not friendly.
Something sharper.
“You know what?”
I frowned.
He stepped toward the hose.
“You people always have a story.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“What do you mean by that?”
He bent down.
I watched him pick up the nozzle.
For a fraction of a second, I thought he intended to move the hose away from the walkway.
Then he pointed it at me.
“Last chance. Get off the property.”
I stared.
“Put that down.”
He squeezed the handle.
A powerful stream of cold water struck me directly in the face.
I gasped.
The force knocked my head sideways, and water rushed over my hair, blouse, and shoulders. I raised one arm to protect my eyes while stumbling backward onto the wet grass.
“STOP!”