The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, leaving streaks of soft pink light across the sky. I had just finished a cup of chamomile tea and was settling into my armchair near the window, the warmth of the mug still lingering in my hands.
Then I heard it.
A violent, deafening crash—followed immediately by the splintering sound of wood and the grinding scrape of metal.
I jumped to my feet so suddenly my knees nearly buckled beneath me.
Heart racing, I rushed through the back door and hurried into the yard.
And there it was.
My fence—older than many of the homes on the street—had been completely destroyed.
Broken boards were scattered across the lawn. Some pieces had been thrown into the bushes, while others lay jagged and splintered across the grass.
And in the middle of the wreckage sat a gleaming red Rolls-Royce.
The rear end of the luxury car was still partially embedded in my yard.
Standing beside it was the driver, casually leaning against the hood as though he were posing for a photograph.
It was Mr. Carmichael.
He had moved into the neighborhood about six months earlier, settling three houses down. I knew his name only because the rest of the neighborhood seemed to whisper it constantly, usually in discussions about his wealth.
