Then she recommended that I change every exterior lock.
A locksmith named Ben Ortega arrived after lunch.
He was replacing the deadbolt on my front door when he noticed a fresh scratch near the cylinder.
He asked whether someone had recently made a copy of my key.
I told him not to my knowledge.
He showed me the faint marks around the lock and explained that they did not prove anything by themselves.
Still, he recommended keeping the old hardware for examination.
While he worked, I called my former wife, Claire.
We had been polite but distant since the divorce.
I asked whether she still had her old house key.
She said she had mailed it back with the final paperwork.
I remembered receiving the envelope but could not recall where I had placed the key.
Claire asked why I wanted to know.
I told her about the camera.
For several seconds she said nothing.
Then she asked whether Patricia Voss was involved.
I said I believed she was.
Claire let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh.
She told me Patricia had once offered to help her gather evidence during our divorce.
I sat down on the stairs.
Claire said Patricia had approached her in the grocery store parking lot shortly after our separation.
Patricia claimed she knew things about my late-night visitors and could provide photographs if necessary.
Claire had told her to stay out of our marriage.
I asked why she had never mentioned it.
She said she had been angry with me at the time and had not wanted another argument.
Then her voice softened.
She told me that whatever had happened between us, nobody had the right to spy on me inside my home.
When the call ended, I found the envelope containing Claire’s old key.
It was still sealed beneath a stack of tax documents.
Someone else had obtained access.
Chapter 7: The Board Meeting
The Briar Glen Residents Association met on the first Tuesday of every month in a rented room at the community recreation center.
I had attended exactly one meeting before, and Patricia had spent most of it complaining about holiday decorations.
This time I arrived with Simone and a folder of printed documents.
The room smelled of stale coffee and floor cleaner.
About twenty residents sat in folding chairs facing a long table.
Patricia occupied the center seat beside the association president, Harold Finch.
Harold was a retired insurance adjuster who spoke softly and avoided eye contact whenever Patricia interrupted him.
When the public-comment period began, I stood and asked whether the board had authorized cameras inside private homes.
