I pushed through the front door, my fingers clamped so hard around the glossy photograph the edges cut into my palm.
The image burned in my mind. The bottom of the seventh hole. The jagged, blue-black edge of the anchor stone exposed to the open air.
"Mom, are you seriously bothering Aunt Lola again?"
Theo sprawled across the living room sofa, his sneakers resting on the velvet cushions. He didn't bother looking up from his glowing screen. His thumbs moved in rapid succession.
"Take your shoes off the couch, Theo," I said, my voice flat.
"My friends are laughing at me," he continued, ignoring my instruction. "They said we live with an HOA tyrant. Do you know how embarrassing that is?"
I slipped my trench coat off my shoulders and hung it on the brass hook by the door. I smoothed the wrinkles from the fabric, buying myself a single second to swallow the sharp taste of betrayal in the back of my throat. My own son, parroting Garrett's talking points.
"I don't care what your friends say," I told him, turning to face the living room. "I care about the safety of this property. Tonight is a full moon. Check the deadbolts on the front and back doors. They stay locked until dawn."
Theo finally tore his eyes away from his phone. He stared at me like I had grown a second head.
"Are you joking?" he asked, a harsh laugh escaping his chest. "A full moon? What is this, a werewolf movie?"
"It is the rule, Theo."
"It is a feudal superstition," he shot back, his tone dripping with teenage venom. "Dad is right. You are completely losing your grip on reality. Over a patch of dirt and the phases of the moon."
He dropped his head back down and tapped his screen with aggressive force. I walked closer, close enough to see the Brookline Private Parents Group chat open on his display.
"My mom won't even let us open the doors for a full moon," Theo typed out. He hit send, followed immediately by a laughing-crying emoji.
My chest tightened. The boy I had sacrificed everything for—the boy whose tuition I paid by draining my inheritance—was currently broadcasting my supposed insanity to the entire neighborhood. Garrett had built the stage, and Theo was happily dancing on it.
"Did you send that to Garrett, too?" I asked.
"Dad already knows you act like a freak," Theo muttered. "He told me you yelled at Davis and the others today for planting trees. Trees, Mom. Normal people like trees."
"Normal people do not dig eight feet down to plant a maple sapling," I said.
"You always have an excuse," he said, rolling his eyes. "Dad said you just want to control everything because you don't have a real job."
I stared at him. The words hit me squarely in the chest. I managed the estate finances. I paid the mortgage. I funded Garrett's failed startups. I kept a roof over this boy's head.
I didn't scream. I didn't rip the device from his hands. I just stared at the top of his head, at the messy brown hair he inherited from my side of the family, and felt a cold, hard wall slide into place between us.
"Lock the doors, Theo," I repeated, my tone devoid of any warmth. "Do not go outside."
"Or what?" he challenged, sitting up slightly. "The moon ghosts are going to get me?"
"Or you will find out exactly why I enforce these rules," I said.
I turned my back on him and walked down the hallway.
"Whatever, tyrant," he called out behind me.
I stepped into my study and shoved the heavy oak door shut. I turned the brass key, locking myself inside. The muffled sound of the television drifted from the living room, a stark contrast to the absolute silence of my sanctuary.
I crossed the Persian rug and knelt in front of the floor safe hidden beneath my desk. I spun the dial. Right to forty-two, left to twelve, right to seven. The heavy steel door clicked open.
I reached past the stack of tax returns and pulled out a small, rectangular wooden box. The polished mahogany felt cool against my skin.
I carried it to the desk and popped the bronze latch.
Inside rested the original, century-old parchment deed to the corner lot. Beside it lay a heavy silver seal, the metal tarnished black with age. I picked up the seal, running my thumb over the deep grooves carved into the base. A crescent moon, flanked by three jagged lines.
The scent of old paper and dust filled the air, dragging me backward through time.
Fourteen years ago. The sterile smell of the hospice room. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor.
Grandma Odette gripped my wrist, her fingernails biting into my skin with terrifying strength. Her breathing rattled in her chest.
"Let the whole street think you are crazy, Maren," she rasped, pressing the folded deed into my palm. "Doors stay closed on the full moon. No digging on the corner lot. Never break the pact."
"I promise, Grandma," I had whispered, crying onto her frail hand.
"They will try to dig," she warned, her eyes wild and unfocused. "Keep them out."
I blinked, pulling myself out of the memory. The study came back into focus.
My son thought I was a tyrant. My husband used my money to fund a campaign to destroy me. The entire neighborhood viewed me as a toxic nuisance.
No one understood the weight of the dirt they stood on.
I set the silver seal back into the velvet-lined box and walked over to the tall bay window. I cracked the wooden blinds just enough to see out into the night.
The streetlights cast a sickly yellow glow over the asphalt. Down at the end of the block, on lot forty-two, harsh white beams cut through the darkness.
Lola's yard was lit up like a construction site.
Three high-powered headlamps bobbed near the wooden fence line. They were moving around the seventh hole. The shadow of a rented backhoe loomed in the driveway, its metal bucket resting against the grass like a sleeping beast.
They weren't waiting for the permit variance to clear. They were prepping the site.
I watched Lola's silhouette lean over the edge of the pit. She pointed downward, directing another figure standing in the dirt. Garrett. My husband was down in the hole with her. He swung a heavy pickaxe, the metal striking stone with a faint, rhythmic thud that carried across the quiet street.
I pressed my forehead against the cold windowpane. The white scar on my right palm throbbed, a steady, rhythmic pulse syncing with the beat of my heart.
"You have no idea what you are waking up," I whispered to the glass.
I counted the headlamps again. Three. Someone else was out there with them. A tall man in a dark jacket stood near the backhoe, handing Lola a thick coil of industrial chain.
They were going to rip the anchor stone out of the earth.
I dropped the blinds. The study plunged back into shadows.
I walked back to the desk, grabbed the glossy photograph Reggie gave me, and shoved it into my coat pocket.
"Thirty-six hours until the vote takes effect," I muttered to the empty room. "She is going to make her move on the night it passes."
I snatched my car keys off the desk.
