The garage window was shattered, and the cabinet holding the recorder had been forced open.
But the silver box was no longer inside.
I had moved it to my locked office the previous afternoon.
Someone had broken into the garage looking for evidence that was already gone.
The responding officer photographed the window, the pry marks, and the broken frame.
He asked whether anything valuable was missing.
I told him the tools appeared untouched.
He looked at the empty cabinet.
“What used to be in there?”
“A local camera recorder,” I said.
“I moved it before the break-in.”
He wrote that down and asked whether I suspected a particular person.
I told him about Gwen’s threats and the earlier damage.
He did not promise an arrest.
He explained that suspicion, even supported by several incidents, still needed proof linking a person to a specific act.
I understood his caution, even as I stared at the rain blowing through my broken window.
By morning the garage smelled of soaked insulation and plaster dust.
Maya came downstairs wearing my old college sweatshirt.
“I heard it,” she said.
I tried to give her a reassuring smile.
“The police have been here.”
“Did they catch anybody?”
“Not yet.”
She stood in the doorway and looked at the jagged glass.
“They wanted the video.”
“We don’t know who they were,” I replied.
Maya’s expression told me she disliked the answer.
I disliked it too.
We spent the morning covering the opening with plywood while a glass company arranged a replacement.
I canceled two appointments with bookkeeping clients and apologized for the delay.
One customer was understanding.
Another reminded me that her quarterly filings could not wait because my neighbor was difficult.
She was right about the deadline and wrong about the scale of the problem.
By noon, my insurance representative was asking for itemized photographs and repair invoices.
I had already filed three separate damage claims that month.
My deductible was larger than the cost of the first broken gate, so most of the expenses came from our household budget.
Maya overheard me telling my brother Ian that I might have to postpone her winter school trip.
She walked outside without saying anything.
I followed her to the porch.
“You didn’t do this,” I said.
“I went to the body shop,” she replied.
“That made it worse.”
“A person who threatens a teenager because she witnessed an accident is responsible for that choice.”
