Diane hadn't responded, but Ray reported she'd been on the phone all week, talking to everyone. Diane Covington didn't wait for the BBQ. She struck first, fast, wide, and dirty. Monday morning, before Aaron's flyer ink was dry, she called the county zoning board, spoke to a friend, a woman she'd sold a house to three years ago, someone who owed her a favor. "I need to report a residential property being used as an unlicensed event venue.
Regular large-scale gatherings, commercial-level activity, food served to the public. I have documentation." She didn't have documentation. She had photographs of Aaron's backyard taken from her second-floor window. Ribs on a grill, folding tables, people laughing.
Evidence of a felony if the felony was being happy on a Saturday. Tuesday, she called the county health department, requested a food safety inspection of the Fletcher property. Claimed Aaron was serving food to the public without a permit. The woman on the phone asked if it was a restaurant. Diane said, "It might as well be."
Wednesday, the anonymous letters arrived. Every mailbox on Magnolia Lane, same envelope, same paper, same font, no return address. "Do you really know your neighbors? A concerned citizen has serious questions about the large, frequent gatherings at 1843 Magnolia Lane. Unknown visitors, unregulated food service.
What is really happening at this address? Are your children safe?" It didn't say Fletcher, didn't say Black. It didn't need to. The letter did what Diane's smile always did, said everything without saying anything.
A stiletto wrapped in stationery. Aaron read his copy standing at the mailbox, folded it, put it in his pocket. His face showed nothing, but his knuckles were white around the paper's edge. Ray Hutchins found the same letter in his box. He also noticed something.
The paper stock was identical to a flyer Diane had left on his door two months ago, promoting her real estate services. Same weight, same slightly cream tint, same faint watermark in the corner. He photographed both and texted Aaron. "Same paper, same printer. She's not as clever as she thinks."
Thursday, three days before the barbecue, Aaron came home to a Ridgewood Township code enforcement truck in his driveway. A young officer stood on the property line with a tape measure and a clipboard, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else on Earth. "Sir, we received a complaint that your fence exceeds the property boundary by 4 inches and that your smoker violates residential setback regulations." Aaron leaned against the porch railing. "Go ahead and measure."
The officer measured. The fence was 2 inches inside the property line. The smoker sat 15 feet from the nearest structure, 5 feet beyond the minimum. Zero violations. Again, the officer packed up his tape measure.
"Sorry for the trouble, sir." "Not your fault." Aaron looked across the street. Diane was watching from her kitchen window. The same window, the same position, the same silent surveillance she'd maintained for three months.
Aaron raised his hand, gave her a small wave, fingers only, barely a flutter. The same wave she'd given him back in section three. She recognized it. He could tell by the way the curtain snapped shut. That evening, Gerald Trask showed up at Aaron's door, uninvited, uncomfortable.