I’d lied about work; I actually had two days off to be with my kids. But now I knew, the truth wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Derek was just a selfish man who needed to be taught a lesson.
During the course of the day, the egg had dried into streaks. The toilet paper, now limp from dew, hung like a surrender flag. I was too tired to cry and too angry to sleep.
So I picked up my phone and started documenting everything.
I took photos from every angle — the shell fragments near the tires, the yolk pooled at the base of the windshield, the toilet paper tangled around the mirrors. Then I recorded a short video and narrated it in a voice steadier than I felt, making sure to state the date and time.
The silence of my house made every tap of my screen sound like a drumbeat. It felt clinical and methodical — like I was treating a wound.
Afterward, I slipped on a sweater, grabbed the baby monitor, and crossed the street to Marisol’s place. Her living room light was still on. She answered in slippers, a face mask, and held onto a cup of chamomile tea in one hand.
“You okay, honey?” she asked, eyeing me gently. “The babies are okay?”
“They’re fine. And I will be,” I said. “But listen, did you see anything strange last night? Outside my house, along the street — that kind of thing?”
She glanced at my car and winced.
“Yeah, Em,” she said. “I saw Derek outside around 11 p.m. I thought he was just fixing those stupid decorations of his. How much do you think he spends on them? For a grown man… that’s weird, right?”
“Marisol, focus,” I said, grinning. “Would you be willing to say that you saw him if someone asked?”
“Of course, Em,” she said, straightening. “That man takes the holidays way too seriously.”
“Thank you,” I said, gratitude flooding my chest. “I really appreciate it.”
I walked a few doors down to Rob’s place. He was taking out the trash and eating a popsicle.
“Don’t tell Maggie,” he said. “She’s been going on about my blood sugar levels again.”
When I asked him the same question, he nodded.
“He was out there, Emily,” Rob said. “I heard him muttering something about ‘view blockers.’ I figured it was about your car. You should hose it down as soon as possible. Eggs are acidic; they’re going to ruin your paint.”
“Would you mind writing that down, Rob? Please.”
“Not at all.”
The next morning, I called the non-emergency line at the police station and filed a vandalism report. Officer Bryant showed up that afternoon with a clipboard and calm energy. He took my statement, allowed Max to hold his badge, and advised me to take the car downtown for a quote for the detailing.
The shop quoted just over $500. I printed everything: photos, the police report, the statements from my neighbors, and the estimate. I drafted a short letter demanding payment for damages and slid it into an envelope.
I walked it over to Derek’s and pushed it under his door.
For good measure, I emailed a copy to our neighborhood Homeowners Association Board.
Two days passed, and then came the knock.
Derek stood on my porch, his jaw tight and his cheeks flushed.
“This is ridiculous,” he snapped. “It’s just Halloween, Emily.”
