She said the technician would call me in the morning.
I barely slept.
At six fifteen, a white envelope appeared beneath my front door.
Inside was a photograph of my living room taken from above the fireplace.
It showed me standing in front of the broken clock.
A sentence had been written across the bottom in thick red marker.
You should have left my property alone.
Chapter 3: The Lawsuit
By noon, Patricia Voss had filed a civil claim against me.
The complaint accused me of intentionally destroying a security device worth four thousand eight hundred dollars.
It also demanded compensation for lost recordings, installation costs, and emotional distress.
The total was fourteen thousand six hundred dollars.
I read the document three times before calling the attorney who had handled my divorce.
His name was Martin Keene, and he specialized in family law rather than privacy disputes.
He listened patiently while I explained what had happened.
Then he asked a question I had not expected.
Did Patricia admit the camera belonged to her?
I told him she had put that admission in writing.
Martin asked me to email the complaint immediately.
Ten minutes later, he called back with a different voice.
He said I needed a lawyer who handled civil litigation and privacy claims.
He also warned me not to contact Patricia directly.
I ignored that last piece of advice for approximately twenty minutes.
Patricia was standing beside her rose bushes when I stepped outside.
She wore gardening gloves and held a silver watering can.
I asked why she had put a camera in my living room.
She did not deny it.
Instead, she said the device had been installed to protect the community.
I asked what community needed to watch a man sitting on his own couch.
Patricia lowered the watering can and studied me as though I were a misbehaving child.
She said I had been conducting suspicious meetings and receiving visitors after dark.
I reminded her that I was an architect and sometimes met clients at home.
She replied that honest people did not object to reasonable oversight.
Then she raised her phone and began recording me.
I told her to stop.
She smiled and said my reaction would be useful in court.
Across the street, a garage door opened.
A man named Aaron Bell stepped out carrying a trash bag.
He glanced between us and quickly went back inside.
Patricia noticed him too.
She turned away and announced that all further communication would go through her attorney.
I returned home shaking with anger.
An hour later, Martin sent me the name of a civil attorney named Simone Hart.
