“Then the association records are out of date.”
“They are not.”
Marcus almost smiled.
Westridge HOA records still listed Reed Property Holdings LLC because Marcus had purchased the lot through one of his companies during a complex redevelopment process.
Patricia likely saw a company name and never looked further.
The house had taken two years to finish.
Marcus moved in six months earlier.
Most neighbors knew him.
Patricia apparently knew paperwork better than people.
Or believed she did.
Marcus said, “Reed Property Holdings owns the property.”
She nodded triumphantly.
“Exactly.”
Marcus waited.
Nothing.
He almost felt sorry for her.
Almost.
“My last name is Reed.”
Patricia’s face did not change.
“That proves nothing.”
“No.”
“It doesn’t.”
He reached toward the outdoor counter where his phone rested.
Patricia stepped forward.
“Don’t.”
Marcus stopped.
“Don’t what?”
“I’ve already called security.”
He looked at her phone.
“Neighborhood security?”
“The police.”
Marcus slowly lowered his hand.
His daughter had reappeared inside.
This time his sister stood beside her.
Marcus could see concern through the glass.
He raised two fingers.
Stay there.
Patricia followed his glance.
“Are there more people inside?”
Marcus looked at her.
“My family.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“That house was supposed to be vacant until the corporate owner completed occupancy registration.”
Marcus almost laughed.
Now he knew exactly what had happened.
Three weeks earlier, Westridge management company had emailed a routine form about updating owner occupancy information.
Marcus’s assistant had returned it.
Apparently someone in the HOA had not processed it.
Or Patricia had seen something she did not understand and decided that ignorance required enforcement.
He said, “I completed occupancy registration.”
“I would know.”
“Would you?”
Patricia’s face tightened.
“I am president of this association.”
Marcus looked toward the open gate behind her.
“That still doesn’t make this your yard.”
Her jaw moved.
“Do not get smart with me.”
Marcus laughed once.
There it was.
Not the misunderstanding.
The entitlement.
“You walked through my gate without permission.”
“You accused me of trespassing.”
“You called the police.”
“And I’m the one getting smart?”
Patricia stepped toward the grill.
“You need to turn that off.”
Marcus’s expression changed.
“Do not touch anything.”
“You’re creating a fire hazard.”
“The grill is ten feet from the structure.”
“Our rules require—”
“My grill passed county inspection.”
“This is not about county code.”
“No.”
Marcus nodded.
“I’m beginning to understand that.”
Patricia reached toward the tongs lying beside the grill.
Marcus put his hand down before she could touch them.
“Leave my property.”
Her face flushed.
“You don’t get to order me around.”
“It’s actually one of the few places where I absolutely do.”
She slapped his hand away.
Not hard enough to injure him.
Hard enough to make the moment unmistakable.
Marcus looked at his hand.
Then at her.
Patricia realized what she had done.
For half a second.
Then pride rescued her from judgment.
She snatched the metal tongs from beside the grill and threw them onto the patio.
They clattered against stone.
Inside the house, Marcus heard his daughter shout.
“Dad!”
Marcus never moved toward Patricia.