"No. That's the problem."
He nodded in the sympathetic way people do when they already know they cannot help much.
I felt ridiculous.
Someone had stood in my driveway long enough to cover an entire car in paint, and I couldn't prove who had done it.
Later that afternoon, I saw Denise near the fence.
I almost kept walking.
Instead, I stopped.
"Someone painted my car last night."
Her eyes widened.
"No."
"Yes."
"The whole thing?"
"The whole thing."
Denise, of course, acted completely shocked and sympathetic when I mentioned it to her over the fence, which somehow made it worse.
"That's horrible," she said.
Her voice sounded almost concerned.
Almost.
"I called the police."
"Good. You absolutely should."
I watched her face.
Nothing.
No nervousness.
No slip.
No sign that I could use.
"Hopefully they figure out who did it," she added.
"Hopefully."
She smiled before going inside.
For the next several days, every time I looked at that ruined car, I felt the same combination of anger and helplessness.
I finally ordered security cameras.
Too late, obviously.
