My grandson’s wife threw a ceramic plate at my head after I refused to give her parents my rental house. Tyler, whom I had raised since he was three, stood beside her and asked me to calm down.

By ten o'clock the following morning, Helen drove me back to my modest, single-story ranch home. My head throbbed behind my stitches, but my mind was clearer than it had been in a decade.

Waiting in my driveway was a commercial locksmith van.

"Morning, Mrs. Vance," the technician, a reliable man named Joe who had serviced my properties for years, tipped his cap. "Got your emergency call at dawn. We’re changing all exterior deadbolts, installing smart keypads, and reinforcing the strike plates."

"Thank you, Joe," I said. "And I need the garage door code wiped and reprogrammed immediately."

As Joe went to work with his drills and picks, Helen and I sat at my kitchen table with a stack of bank statements and my laptop.

"First things first," Helen said, pushing her reading glasses up her nose. "The joint checking account you set up for Tyler when he was in college."

"Close it," I said without hesitation. "Transfer whatever balance remains into my private savings account at First National."

"What about his luxury SUV?" Helen asked, pointing at the auto loan statement. "You co-signed the note, but you’ve been paying the seven-hundred-dollar monthly bill from your pension account."

"Stop the auto-pay," I instructed, my pen firmly crossing through the account line. "Notify the lender that the primary borrower is Tyler Vance, and provide them with his current address and employment information. If he misses a payment, let them repossess it."

"And the rental property on Oak Street?" Helen asked, leaning forward.

Oak Street was a beautiful, renovated three-bedroom Craftsman house located five minutes from downtown. My late husband, Thomas, and I had purchased it forty years ago. For the last six months, it had been sitting vacant while I decided whether to sell it or put it on the long-term rental market. That was the carcass Marcus and Diane were circling like vultures.

"I need to check Oak Street," I murmured, a sudden chill running down my spine. "Marcus asked for a key three weeks ago, claiming he wanted to measure the living room for potential tenants."

Helen’s eyes widened. "Clara, you don't think..."

Before Helen could finish her sentence, the front doorbell chimed. Joe poked his head into the kitchen. "Mrs. Vance, there's a couple banging on the front door. They're making quite a racket."

I stood up, smoothed my blouse, and walked into the foyer. Through the sidelight window, I saw Marcus and Diane. Diane was wearing oversized sunglasses, clutching her designer purse like a shield, while Marcus was furiously rattling the brass doorknob.

I opened the front door, leaving the heavy security screen locked between us.

"Clara! Open this door right now!" Marcus barked, his face flushed red with indignation. "Do you have any idea what you've done?! Marissa spent the entire night in central booking! They wouldn't even let her have her anxiety medication!"

"Then she should have thought about her medication before committing aggravated assault," I replied coldly through the mesh.

"You spiteful, bitter old woman!" Diane shrieked, taking off her sunglasses to reveal bloodshot, puffy eyes. "She’s a girl! She’s twenty-four years old! You provoked her! You sat there looking down your nose at us as if we were street beggars asking for scraps!"

"You were asking for a four-hundred-thousand-dollar house for free, Diane," I said, keeping my voice level. "That makes you much worse than a beggar. That makes you a thief."

"Tyler is our family now!" Marcus shouted, stepping closer and jabbing a thick finger against the screen. "You raised an ungrateful boy who owes everything to our daughter’s family connections! You drop the charges right now, or I swear to God, I will hire the best defense attorney in the state and sue you for civil harassment and intentional infliction of emotional distress! We will take this house, Oak Street, and every penny of your pension!"

"Is that a threat, Marcus?" I asked softly.

"It’s a promise, you senile witch!" Marcus snarled.

I pointed calmly toward the upper corner of the porch. A small, black dome with a flashing blue light was mounted under the eaves.

"High-definition security camera with audio recording," I told them. "Directly uploaded to the cloud. You are currently trespassing on private property, and you have just threatened a victim of a violent crime. You have sixty seconds to get off my porch before I dial 911."

Marcus looked up at the camera, his mouth falling open. Diane grabbed his arm, suddenly terrified.

"Come on, Marcus," Diane whimpered, tugging at his jacket. "Let's go. She’s insane."

Marcus glared at me with pure hatred. "This isn't over, Clara. You haven't seen the last of us."

They scurried down the porch steps and jumped into their Mercedes. As their tires screeched against the asphalt, Helen walked up beside me, holding a warm cup of tea.