Kimberley Hartwell was the kind of girl you didn’t dislike—you just didn’t dare to. Her cruelty never had teeth, only whispers. She wouldn’t shove you in the hallway or key your car. But by the end of the week, your friends would avoid you, your boyfriend would be ignoring your texts, and someone would have told the school you were caught stealing makeup from the pharmacy. And Kimberley? She’d be sipping a strawberry lemonade through a glass straw, perfectly unbothered, batting lashes like she’d never even heard your name.

Her father, Marco Hartwell, practically owned half the town—bank, dealership, city council “donations”—and her mother Catherina ran the homeowners’ association like it was a kingdom. They lived in the white house on the hill with the black wrought-iron gate and the roses that never wilted. Everyone said Kimberley was polite. Raised well. But no one ever said she was kind.

She had a reputation for older men. Not that she cared. Mr. Dobson from AP history once dropped his chalk when she smiled at him. A thirty-something electrician had nearly backed into traffic staring at her legs when she crossed Main Street. She never chased them—just made it known she liked being looked at. And more than that, she liked when people knew she knew.

So when the new tenant moved into the old Jarvis house, everyone was curious, it was a small town and HOA had hoped to destroy this house for years. She hand her friend introduced themselves with fresh-baked cookies (store-bought, microwaved), leaned just far enough forward to look into the creepy hunted house, giggled and tried to convince the man at the door to let them check in without success.