"Inside."
"Title?"
"Inside."
"Insurance?"
"Yes."
The officer looked at Cynthia.
"Do you have proof of purchase?"
Cynthia proudly held out her phone.
"Yes."
The officer examined it.
I watched Cynthia's expression.
Confidence.
Then uncertainty.
Then fear.
The officer studied the document for nearly thirty seconds.
Finally, she looked at Cynthia.
"Ma'am, I think you've been scammed."
Cynthia blinked.
"What?"
"This document doesn't establish that the seller legally owned the vehicle."
"But I paid eighteen thousand dollars."
"I understand."
"He gave me a title."
"Was it the original?"
"No."
"Did you meet him?"
"No."
"Inspect the car?"
"No."
The officer slowly shook her head.
"Then you purchased a promise."
Cynthia looked toward me.
For the first time that morning, she didn't look at me like an enemy.
She looked confused.
I went inside and returned with a black folder.
I placed it on the hood.
Registration.
Insurance.
Original title.
Restoration receipts.
Maintenance records.
The original bill of sale.
The officer examined every document.
The VIN matched.
The dates matched.
The seller's name matched the state records.
Everything pointed to the same conclusion.
The Camaro belonged to me.
The older officer, Samuel Ortega, examined Cynthia's document.
"This is interesting."
"What?" Cynthia asked.
"This title template is outdated."
She stared.
"What does that mean?"
"It means someone copied an older state form."
Cynthia's lips parted.
"So the title is fake?"
"Most likely."
She looked at me.
I said nothing.
Then she showed the officer the photographs she had received.
The first showed my Camaro at a car show.
The second showed it in my driveway.
The third showed the interior.
The fourth showed the engine.
All authentic.
All my photographs.
Then I saw the fifth.
I froze.
It showed the Camaro inside my garage.
But it wasn't my garage as it looked today.
The cabinets were older.
The lights were different.
A calendar on the wall showed a date from three years earlier.
I pointed.
"That photograph was never public."
Officer Ortega looked at me.
"You're sure?"
"Positive."
Cynthia swallowed.
"How could someone have it?"
I knew the answer.
The HOA.
Three years earlier, Stonebridge had conducted property inspections.
I had allowed an inspector into my garage.
He had photographed the vehicle.
At the time, I hadn't cared.
Why would I?
It was just a photograph.
Now it was evidence.
Detective Maya Collins arrived thirty minutes later.
She examined the fake title.
The payment record.
The advertisement.
The photographs.
Then she asked Cynthia one question.
"Why this car?"
Cynthia hesitated.
"Because I liked it."
Detective Collins shook her head.
"That's not enough."
Cynthia looked down.
"The seller told me it was undervalued."
"How did he know you were interested?"
"He contacted me."
"How did he know your name?"
Cynthia went silent.
I suddenly remembered something.
"Cynthia."
She looked at me.
"You talked about the Camaro."
"When?"
"At the neighborhood meeting."
Her expression changed.
"You told everyone it was probably worth forty thousand dollars."
She swallowed.
"One of the property management assistants was there."
Detective Collins wrote something down.
"Evan Mercer?"
Cynthia nodded.
And that was the moment the stolen-car story became something much bigger.
Stonebridge Community Services managed the HOA database.
According to Cynthia, it contained ordinary information.
Names.
Addresses.
Vehicle registrations.
Inspection records.
Emergency contacts.
Nothing dangerous.
Detective Collins didn't believe her.
She requested access logs.
The property manager, Harold Pike, arrived at the office looking irritated.
"This database is secure."
Collins looked at him.
"Good."
She placed a warrant request on the table.
"Then you won't mind showing me who accessed Mr. Brooks's file."
Harold's confidence disappeared.
The system showed twelve downloads.
Not searches.
Downloads.
High-resolution photographs.
Vehicle information.
Inspection dates.
Property notes.
All connected to one account.
Evan Mercer.
Evan was twenty-seven.
Assistant compliance coordinator.
Employed by Stonebridge for eighteen months.
I had seen him before.
Usually carrying a tablet.
Usually taking photographs.
Usually standing beside Cynthia.
I remembered one particular afternoon.
Evan had asked me about the Camaro.
"Beautiful car," he'd said.
I had thanked him.
He'd asked how much I thought it was worth.
I had joked:
"More than my house if I find the right buyer."
We had laughed.
I hadn't thought about it again.
Now I wished I had.
Detective Collins looked at Cynthia.
"Did you ever discuss this vehicle with Evan?"
Cynthia nodded.
"Yes."
"How much did you tell him?"
"I said it was valuable."
"How valuable?"
"Maybe forty thousand."
Collins closed her notebook.
"That was enough."
She explained it later.
The scammer didn't need everything.
They needed pieces.
A photograph.
A VIN.
A vehicle value.
A garage location.
A homeowner's name.
Then they created a convincing lie.
The next morning, police discovered twelve more vehicle listings.
All belonged to Stonebridge residents.
All used legitimate photographs.
All contained accurate vehicle details.
Three people had already transferred money.
One had lost $24,000.
Another had sent $31,500.
A third had paid $9,000.
Suddenly, the neighborhood changed.
Garage doors stayed closed.
Cars disappeared from driveways.
Residents stopped posting vacation notices.