Patrick initially said he had been home that night.
Then a toll record and a message on his phone contradicted the timeline.
Brooks later told me he had admitted entering my garage without permission.
He claimed Gwen told him the recorder belonged to her because it showed her private property.
He also claimed she offered cash if he removed it quietly.
I did not know whether that was the whole truth.
Patrick’s lawyer disputed parts of the account, and the police continued checking his statements against records.
Still, the confession changed the atmosphere on Willow Bend Lane.
For weeks neighbors had treated the damaged windows as an ugly disagreement between two women.
Now a stranger had reportedly been paid to enter my locked garage at night.
Mr. Patel knocked on my door and apologized for dismissing the incidents as a feud.
“I should have asked whether you needed help,” he said.
I thanked him without pretending an apology could repair the fear.
That evening I attended a neighborhood meeting at the community library.
It had been called to discuss road safety after Lena’s collision, but Gwen’s friends had begun whispering about the investigation.
I considered leaving when I saw Gwen seated near the front.
Then I noticed Sofia Ortiz in the second row, holding a thick binder of medical appointment schedules.
I sat beside her.
The meeting began with proposed lighting and a lower speed limit near the service road.
One resident complained that the town would waste money on changes because of one accident.
Sofia stood before anyone could answer.
“My daughter was hit by a driver who left her in the road,” she said.
“Safety measures won’t erase that, but they may prevent another family from sitting beside a hospital bed.”
The room grew quiet.
Gwen stared at the floor.
I watched her with the strange, unwelcome thought that she looked genuinely ashamed.
Then she rose and left without acknowledging Sofia.
The letter arrived two days after the library meeting.
It had been slipped beneath my front door, where the new motion camera could not see the person’s face.
The envelope contained a photocopy of a vehicle registration and a single line typed across the bottom.
“Ask why the truck was insured under a business that no longer exists.”
I did not know who had sent it.
The registration identified an inactive contracting company linked to Evan, but the document could have been old, incomplete, or altered.
