When Jack and I moved into the little rental house on Maple Ridge Drive, we thought we had found the perfect temporary escape from our hectic work lives. It was quiet, lined with neat lawns and identical mailboxes, the kind of neighborhood where people waved politely and pulled their trash cans in before sunset. We were only supposed to be there for four months for a joint work assignment, so we didn’t unpack much—just the essentials, a few framed photos, and our laptops.

On our second evening there, while we were still arguing over where to put the coffee maker, we heard a sharp knock at the door. Standing outside was a woman in her late forties with perfectly styled hair, a bright smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and a tray of cookies arranged like something out of a magazine. “Hi! I’m Lindsey, your neighbor,” she said in an overly cheerful voice. “I just wanted to welcome you to the community.” She leaned slightly to peek past us into the living room, her eyes scanning every corner as if she were inspecting a hotel room. Something about her made me uneasy, but I smiled and thanked her anyway.