I told her that adults sometimes had to answer unfair questions before they could prove what happened.

She asked why unfair questions were allowed.

I did not have a satisfying answer.

On Monday, Deputy Brooks returned with a detective I had not met.

His name was Caleb Morse, and he carried a plain notebook rather than a large file.

He asked me to show him the entire route between the pool, the gate, and the windows visible from my yard.

I walked him through it without stepping onto Vivian’s property.

He asked whether I had ever seen Vivian physically throw a bag other than the first morning.

I said I had observed her near the fence and had video of several bags entering the water, but the angle did not always show the person releasing them.

He appreciated the distinction.

Then he asked about the threatening email and the notice from the supposed wellness council.

I gave him both originals.

Morse compared the paper stock of the notice with another document from his folder.

I could not see the second document clearly.

He did not tell me what it was.

“Has Vivian ever offered to buy the camera?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Only to have me turn it off.”

“What about a contractor?”

I described her nephew and the privacy fence estimate.

Morse wrote down the name from the truck’s business card.

“We may need your complete recording devices for forensic examination,” he said.

I told him I had backups and could provide access with appropriate paperwork.

He nodded.

“That is a sensible way to handle it.”

Before leaving, he stood beside the fence and looked at my pool.

“The debris changes, but the position of the bags doesn’t,” he observed.

I asked what he meant.

“They land near the same stretch of water every time.”

I had noticed the pattern without thinking it important.

He pointed to the filter housing.

“Whoever throws them knows exactly where they’ll be drawn by the circulation.”

I imagined Vivian standing at the fence each morning, selecting a place where the current would carry the garbage toward the drain.

I asked whether that was significant.

“It suggests familiarity,” he said.

“It doesn’t tell us why.”

After he left, I examined the map of my pool equipment.

The old pump and drain were visible from Vivian’s upstairs windows.

The new camera covered the service path.

The filter basket held the largest pieces of trash before they could pass through the pump.