The fabric tore with a loud rip.

“Get your hands off me!” she shrieked.

She threw herself onto the ground.

The wet gravel dug into her knees, tearing her stockings.

“Richard! Call the mayor!” she screamed toward the road.

The Mercedes did not stop.

It crawled forward, its tires crunching on the wet asphalt before accelerating away.

Another vehicle approached from the opposite direction.

It was a black Range Rover belonging to the Whitmores.

The passenger window rolled down an inch.

Eleanor Whitmore looked out, a travel mug of coffee in her hand.

She stared directly at Patricia, who was now sprawling on the wet stones.

“Look at what they are doing!” Patricia sobbed, pointing a finger at me. “She did this! My own daughter-in-law!”

Eleanor Whitmore raised her phone to the window.

A small flash flickered through the morning mist as she took a photo.

Patricia screamed in rage, throwing a handful of gravel toward the road.

“You monsters!” she cried, her voice cracking. “This is my street! You cannot do this to me!”

Her hair, usually kept in a perfect bun, fell completely loose.