"Who's that?"
"Diane."
"His mother?"
"Yes."
"She comes out often."
"Very."
We continued.
There were recordings of Diane confronting me.
Recordings of Tyler laughing at the warning sign.
Recordings showing him deliberately positioning the car so my garage couldn't be accessed.
Then came the final day.
7:12.
Tyler arrived.
He looked at the sign.
He deliberately parked sideways.
He got out.
He looked directly at the camera.
Then he smiled.
Detective Cole leaned closer.
"That's useful."
"Why?"
"Because he knew he was being recorded."
I looked at him.
"What does that mean?"
"It means his actions weren't accidental."
We kept watching.
Then another clip appeared.
It showed Tyler returning to the Porsche late at night.
He opened the trunk.
He looked around.
Then he crouched beside the passenger side.
The camera angle didn't show exactly what he was doing.
But his movements were deliberate.
Detective Cole stopped the video.
"Do you have the original file?"
"Yes."
"Don't edit it."
"I won't."
He copied it.
Then he asked me something unexpected.
"Has anyone else complained about him?"
"I don't know."
He paused.
"Think carefully."
I remembered an elderly neighbor named Mrs. Alvarez.
She lived two houses away.
A few months earlier, she had mentioned an argument involving a damaged vehicle.
I hadn't paid much attention.
Now I called her.
She answered.
"Is everything okay?"
I told her the Porsche had been towed.
There was silence.
Then she said:
"That boy?"
"Yes."
"Is this about the car?"
"Maybe."
She sighed.
"Come over tomorrow."
The next morning, she handed me a folder.
Inside were receipts.
Photographs.
Copies of messages.
And a handwritten statement.
Someone had accused her of scratching their car.
She had been pressured into paying for repairs.
The vehicle belonged to Tyler.
The date was three months earlier.
Detective Cole looked through the folder.
Then he looked at me.
"This is bigger than your driveway."
Once the investigation widened, people started remembering things.
That was the strange part.
Everyone had seen something.
Nobody had connected the incidents.
A damaged SUV had been left behind a closed business.
A sedan had been parked near a construction site for two nights.
A neighbor had seen Tyler switching license plates before sunrise.
A delivery driver remembered the red Porsche appearing behind a repair shop after midnight.
One by one, stories surfaced.
Detective Cole started collecting them.
The pattern was becoming clearer.
Tyler wasn't simply using my driveway because it was convenient.
He was using private properties as temporary hiding places.
A damaged vehicle could sit in someone's driveway for hours.
If anyone complained, Diane would intervene.
Sometimes she acted friendly.
Sometimes she threatened.
Sometimes she suggested the homeowner was being unreasonable.
And sometimes, according to several neighbors, she implied that making trouble would create problems for everyone.
It worked.
People wanted peace.
They didn't want arguments.
They didn't want police.
They didn't want lawsuits.
So they tolerated things.
Tyler learned that.
Diane learned that.
And together, they built a system around silence.
My driveway was simply the first place where someone refused to cooperate.
Meanwhile, investigators examined the Porsche.
The plate belonged to another vehicle.
The paperwork didn't match.
Some identification numbers appeared altered.
The vehicle itself had damage that didn't correspond with the ownership records Tyler had provided.
The investigator told me they were checking whether the car was connected to stolen parts and fraudulent insurance claims.
I didn't ask for details.
I didn't want to know more than necessary.
But one fact kept bothering me.
Why had Tyler been so determined to keep parking in my driveway?
Because there were other empty spaces.
Other streets.
Other properties.
He had options.
He chose mine.
Then I remembered something.
The garage.
My cameras.
My business.
Anyone watching from the street could assume the Porsche belonged to me.
A damaged luxury car sitting outside a mechanic's house wouldn't immediately look suspicious.
Maybe that was the point.
Maybe my profession had made my driveway useful.
Detective Cole seemed to reach the same conclusion.
"You were convenient."
"Convenient?"
"Yes. Your garage gives the vehicle context."
I stared at him.
"They were hiding behind me."
He nodded.
"Possibly."
That word stayed with me.
Possibly.
Because investigators don't jump to conclusions.
They collect evidence.
And the evidence was starting to pile up.
Diane called me three weeks after the Porsche was taken.
I almost didn't answer.
But I did.
"Hello?"
Her voice was cold.
"You've ruined my son's life."
I leaned against my workbench.
"I didn't do anything to your son."
"You called the police."
"I called a tow company."
"Because you wanted revenge."
"No."
"You hated him."
"I wanted him out of my driveway."
She was silent.
Then she said:
"You could have handled this like a neighbor."
"I tried."
"No, you didn't."
"I left notes."
"He ignored them."
"I spoke to him."
"He laughed."
"I spoke to you."
"You insulted us."
"I asked you to stop."
She became emotional.
"You embarrassed us."
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
The truth.
She cared about embarrassment.
Not the driveway.