“Taking pictures.”
I opened the camera archive.
There she was.
Denise stood on the public sidewalk for nearly four minutes, zooming her phone toward the open garage. Nothing illegal about being on a sidewalk. Nothing illegal about taking a photograph of what was visible.
Still, the behavior fit a pattern.
She was not enforcing a rule.
She was searching for one.
I downloaded the clip.
Two days later, Chase returned.
This time he did not come onto the driveway.
He stood at the curb and called my name.
I walked outside.
“Last chance,” he said.
“For what?”
“The Ferrari. Saturday. Two hours.”
“No.”
He looked toward the garage.
“I could make you famous.”
“I’m good.”
He stepped closer to the curb.
“You really don’t get how things work around here.”
“Then explain it.”
“My mom can make every week annoying.”
There it was.
Not subtle.
Not a joke.
I raised my phone and started recording.
“Say that again.”
His posture changed.
“You’re pathetic.”
“What did you mean about your mother?”
He walked away.
That night I sent the audio to the board.
The vice president, Martin Cole, called me.
“Did he really say that?”
“You heard it.”
“I need to speak with Denise.”
“I would appreciate it.”
Martin sounded embarrassed.
He also sounded worried.
The next day, two of the recent violation notices disappeared from my account without explanation.
That should have been encouraging.
Instead it made me more certain that Denise knew what Chase had been doing.
The event he wanted the Ferrari for was scheduled Saturday night at a new restaurant downtown.
Friday afternoon, he posted a public video teasing “the cleanest supercar in the city” for the launch.
No car was shown.
My friend Lena, who followed several local car pages, sent me the post.
“That better not be yours,” she wrote.
“It won’t be.”
I locked the Ferrari inside the garage Friday night.
I checked the side door.
I checked the overhead garage door.
I armed the alarm.
Then I went upstairs.
At 2:17 a.m., my phone vibrated.
GARAGE EXTERIOR MOTION.
I opened the notification.
The first camera showed a figure near the driveway.
Dark hoodie.
Baseball cap.
Gloves.
The person stayed low beside the parked work van on the street, then moved toward the side of the garage.
A second alert appeared.
SIDE GATE MOTION.
My heart rate climbed instantly.
I turned on the upstairs hallway light and opened the live feeds.
The side-gate camera showed the same figure testing the latch.
Locked.
He returned toward the driveway.
Then something unexpected happened.
A second person appeared at the edge of the exterior camera.
A woman.
Light jacket.
Blonde hair pulled back.
She stayed near the garage wall, directly beneath the visible camera.
Because of the angle, the camera captured only the top of her head and shoulders.
She looked upward once.
Then she moved out of frame.
The man approached the garage.
He did not enter through a door.
Instead, he reached beneath the rubber edge of the overhead door with a long plastic strip.
I was already calling 911.
The dispatcher told me not to confront anyone.
I stayed upstairs.
The alarm system had a silent notification mode, and I had not triggered the siren yet because I wanted the intruders away from the house before police arrived.
Then the garage door lifted six inches.
Ten.
Fifteen.
The man rolled under.
The interior camera switched to infrared.
His face came into view when he stood.
Chase.
No mask.
No ambiguity.
He looked around the garage as if he had been there before.
Then he walked directly to the Ferrari.
For a moment, he only stared at it.
I remember thinking that maybe he would stop.
Maybe the reality of standing inside somebody else’s garage would finally break through whatever story he had told himself.
It did not.
He pulled something from his pocket.
A key.
He dragged it slowly along the driver-side rear quarter panel.
The sound was faint through the camera microphone.
A dry metallic scratch.
He did it again.
Then across the door.
Then the front fender.
My stomach twisted.
The Ferrari had paint-protection film, but the pressure was deep enough that I could see the line catching infrared light.
Chase moved around the front.
He struck the passenger mirror with a short metal flashlight.
Once.
Twice.
The housing cracked.
Then he pulled a small bottle from his hoodie and poured a thick white liquid across the windshield and hood.
Later we learned it was an industrial marking paint.
At that moment, I only knew he was damaging the car.
The dispatcher kept telling me officers were close.
I wanted to run downstairs.
Every instinct told me to stop him.
I did not.
Cars can be repaired.
People cannot always be.
Chase kicked the front tire.
Then he opened his phone and began filming himself beside the damaged Ferrari.
He smiled.
That image stayed with me more than the scratches.
He wanted proof.
Not for police.
For attention.
Outside, the woman reappeared beneath the garage camera.
She whispered something.
The exterior microphone caught only part of it.
“...enough... go.”
Chase looked toward the opening.
He moved for the door.
Then red light swept across the driveway.
Police.
Chase froze.
The woman ran.
The exterior camera captured her moving toward the street.
Blonde ponytail.
Light-colored jacket.
White sneakers.