For 20 years, I was the quiet neighbor who mowed lawns and never raised his

Mark chuckled, a cruel, dismissive sound. “Because I can, old man. Because she’s mine, and I do what I want.”

I nodded slowly, as if accepting his words. Then, with a speed that belied my age, I stepped forward, swinging the bat with all the force I could muster. It connected with a sickening crunch, sending Mark sprawling backward, the scotch glass shattering on the marble floor.

He lay there, dazed, clutching his shoulder as he tried to comprehend the sudden turn of events. I stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind me. The rain was no longer a concern; I had other tasks at hand.