My late husband, Michael, had built the rooftop terrace himself.
And Karen knew perfectly well she wasn’t allowed up there.
Three days earlier, she’d knocked on my door.
“I’m having a fireworks party,” she’d announced. “Your rooftop has the best view, so I told everyone we could watch from there.”
I’d stared at her.
“Karen, absolutely not. You can’t invite strangers onto my property.”
She’d laughed.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. It’s just one night.”
I’d shut the door, assuming she’d understood. Apparently, she’d understood perfectly and decided my answer didn’t matter.
Now it was 8:30 p.m. on Halloween, and strangers were carrying chairs, drinks, and bags of food toward a terrace I’d closed months earlier.
“Karen, I told you no!”
She glanced toward the staircase.
“Everyone’s already here. Don’t make a scene.”
A man squeezed past us with another cooler.
“Great place you’ve got,” he told Karen.
She thanked him.
