Jack and I had just moved into a small rental house for a temporary work assignment when our overly friendly neighbor, Lindsey, introduced herself—cookies in hand and judgment in her eyes. Dressed in pink and prim, she welcomed us with a smile, then launched into a warning: HOA rules only allowed one car per driveway. We had two. She didn’t care we were temporary. “Rules are rules,” she said, smiling too wide.

Three days later, we woke to tow trucks in our driveway hauling away both our cars. No warning, no notice—just Lindsey, sipping coffee on the sidewalk, smirking. Jack and I calmly pointed to a small, barely noticeable sticker on the back windshield. Her smile faltered. “What is that?” she asked, suspicious. We didn’t answer. Just went inside.

That evening, I made a quiet phone call. “Civilian interference. Property tampering,” I said. “Send someone in the morning.” Jack grinned. “Hope she’s wide awake for it.”

At dawn, a sleek black SUV pulled up to Lindsey’s house. A man in a sharp suit and sunglasses stepped out, flashed a badge, and informed her she was under investigation. “You towed two marked government vehicles,” he said. “You compromised federal agents. Damages: $25,000.”

Lindsey stammered, then dropped her coffee mug in shock. Jack stepped forward. “Maybe next time, don’t play sheriff of suburbia.” She stood frozen, mouth open.

We returned to our house in silence. Her blinds stayed closed for days. And those cookies? Still untouched on our counter—stale and forgotten, just like her pride.