She and Josh had maintained this "future Harvard genius" act for years. She bragged about him to anyone who'd listen, and whenever you ran into him, he played the part—quiet, studious, laser-focused. It fooled a lot of people.
The group chat erupted.
"Isn't the owner of 1402 going too far?"
"Right before his college entrance exams? How could you do this!"
"Leave some room—you still have to live here."
"Just apologize already. Don't ruin the kid's future."
Watching the tide of public opinion surge in her favor, Rachel sent a smug voice message:
"Thank you, everyone. Thank you to all my kind neighbors. On Josh's behalf—thank you."
I stared at my phone and smiled.
I didn't type a single word in my defense.
I just dropped the video into the chat. Rachel at 1 a.m., creeping to my door, dumping trash, scrawling a turtle on my door, then strutting home like she'd accomplished something.
The footage wasn't long. But every frame was razor-sharp.
The group chat went dead silent.
Thirty seconds later, it exploded.
"Holy shit—that's Mrs. Lawrence?! Sneaking around at 1 a.m. doing THAT?"
"This plot twist gave me whiplash."
"My God. You really never know people. I actually felt sorry for her."