"She's marked you now, mijo," Dolores whispered, glancing nervously at the prowling BMW. "The family before you? A young couple with a baby." Vivian tortured them over sprinkler schedules until they sold the house and ran.
Sprinkler schedules twice weekly maximum. Never Sundays, never before 9:00 a.m. She makes up half these rules on the spot, then enforces them like federal law. The way Dolores kept checking over her shoulder told me everything.
This woman had terrorized the entire neighborhood into silent compliance. But here's what none of us knew yet. Vivian's petty power trips were just the appetizer. Her 19-year-old son Trevor had been watching mommy's reign of terror his whole life, learning that rules don't apply to the Ashworth family.
College dropout, trust fund baby, zero respect for anyone or anything. And soon, very soon, Trevor was going to take the family business of intimidation to a whole new level. A criminal level that would land him in handcuffs and his mother in a courtroom. Because when you raise a kid to believe they're above consequences, eventually they test that theory.
Boy, was Trevor about to get educated. Two weeks after the gnome incident, Vivian decided to escalate big time. Saturday morning, 8:00 a.m. sharp.
I'm in my boxers, barely conscious, when my doorbell starts ringing like someone's house is on fire. The acrid smell of burnt coffee from my forgotten pot mixing with that crisp autumn air through the screen door. On my porch stood Vivian Ashworth in full battle regalia. Clipboard, measuring tape, digital camera, and here's the kicker, her son Trevor lurking behind her like some kind of entitled shadow.