"What kind of complaint?"
"Anonymous tip. Someone reported seeing unauthorized electrical modifications." I'd been doing some perfectly legal home improvements, updating outlets, installing a new ceiling fan, all within code, all within my rights as a homeowner.
But someone had been watching. Someone with enough knowledge to make it sound suspicious. Monday morning, the city inspector showed up. Nice guy, actually.
Spent an hour going through my work with a fine-tooth comb. "Everything looks perfect," he said, signing off on his report. "Whoever called this in either doesn't know electrical code or was just trying to cause you trouble."
"Any way to find out who made the complaint?"
He shrugged. "Anonymous tips stay anonymous. But between you and me, this is the third complaint we've gotten about this address in two weeks. Same anonymous caller every time."
Three complaints in two weeks about a house I'd lived in for barely a month. The rough texture of the inspector's clipboard under my fingers as I signed his report felt like evidence. Evidence that someone was playing a much bigger game than petty HOA violations. Someone with time, resources, and a serious grudge.
I had a pretty good idea who. After that inspection disaster, Vivian switched tactics. If she couldn't intimidate me with fake authority, she'd drown me in paperwork. The violation notices started raining down like confetti from hell.
Every two to three days, my mailbox delivered fresh harassment with the reliability of a subscription service I never wanted. Tuesday, seasonal decorations displayed out of season. My crime, a small American flag by my front door. Apparently, patriotism expires faster than milk in Vivian's twisted universe.