“Emily Turner, how long do you plan to keep this chaos going? Huh? Enough is enough.”
At 2 a.m., startled awake by the furious shouting that exploded right next to my ear, I bolted up right in bed.
Still half conscious and disoriented, I glanced at my smartphone screen and the caller ID read Daniel Brooks. He was the neighbor of the Lagona Beach vacation home I had purchased just a few weeks earlier. “Mr.
Brooks, I’m very sorry, but what are you talking about? I’m at my primary residence in the city right now.”
“Don’t play dumb. There are about 10 young people partying at your house right now, blasting loud music and drinking like there’s no tomorrow.
It’s so noisy we can’t live our peaceful lives. What do you think the quiet of a residential neighborhood is supposed to mean?”
His voice was trembling with rage. That quiet street in Lagona Beach was home to many wealthy retirees.
He had seemed genuinely pleased when I told him I would be buying a house there. “A party at my place. That’s right.
The street is completely jammed with flashy sports cars and those kids are even splashing alcohol all over the hedges in my garden. I’m this close to calling the police. No, I already am.
If you don’t put an end to this hell within 30 minutes, don’t think you’ll get away with it either.”
The call was cut off unilaterally. My heart began pounding violently deep inside my ears. That was impossible.
That house was something I had finally obtained after running three Italian restaurants day and night without rest for 10 long years. I had just moved in furniture and completely replaced every interior detail with brand new fittings in preparation for the official move next week. There shouldn’t have been anyone there at all.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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