Still, I wasn't letting anyone walk onto my property unseen again.
Yesterday morning, I was still nursing my coffee when I heard frantic pounding on my front door.
Not knocking.
Pounding.
I nearly spilled coffee down my shirt.
I set the mug on the counter and walked toward the entryway.
The pounding came again.
"Christine!"
I recognized Denise's voice.
I opened it to find Denise standing there, hair a mess, still in her bathrobe, practically shaking with rage.
Her face was red.
One slipper was half off her heel.
For once, there was no smug little smile.
"Did you do this?!" she screamed, jabbing a finger toward her own driveway. "I will destroy you!"
I stared at her.
"Do what?"
"You know exactly what!"
"I really don't."
She pointed again.
Her hand was trembling.
"Look!"
I stepped past her onto the porch to see what she was pointing at, and I nearly burst out laughing right there in my slippers.
The reason I almost laughed was sitting in the middle of Denise's driveway.
Her car was completely covered in white paint.
Not splashed.
Not streaked.
Covered.
The hood, roof, doors, windows, mirrors, and headlights were all coated in thick white paint.48
Whoever had done it had been just as thorough as the person who ruined my car.
For a second, I simply stood there.
Then I covered my mouth.
Denise spun toward me.
