"You think this is funny?"
"No," I said, although my face was betraying me. "I think it's familiar."
Her eyes narrowed.
"You did this."
"I was asleep."
"That's exactly what you'd say."
I looked at her car again.
There were paint trays near the front tires. Two rollers had been left on the pavement. A half-empty bucket sat near the passenger door.
Something about that bothered me.
The person who had painted my car had taken everything with them.
No rollers.
No buckets.
Nothing.
I glanced toward my front door.
Then I remembered the security cameras.
My amusement disappeared.
"Wait."
Denise crossed her arms.
"What?"
"I installed cameras after my car was painted."
Her expression changed.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
I turned and walked back inside.
She followed me without being invited.
"Pull it up," she demanded.
"I am."
My hands shook as I opened the security app on my phone.
For days, those cameras had shown me nothing more exciting than delivery drivers, squirrels, and one neighborhood cat that seemed determined to inspect my porch every morning.
Now I scrolled backward through the previous night.
Denise stood so close that I could hear her breathing.
"Go faster."
"I'm trying."
At 2:14 a.m., movement appeared near the edge of the screen.
I stopped.
A pickup truck rolled slowly into view.
Denise leaned closer.
"Who is that?"
"I don't know."
The truck stopped in front of her house.
A man climbed out.
Then another.
