When I left that hearing, I thought maybe Patricia would finally back off. She had been embarrassed. Her lies picked apart. Her credibility shaken in front of everyone. But I should have known better. People like Patricia do not retreat gracefully. They double down. The days after the meeting were a quiet that was not quiet. I would catch glimpses of her from my window, standing on her porch, arms crossed, glaring at my house like she was trying to set it on fire with her eyes. Sometimes she would walk her little dog right past my driveway, slow, deliberate, like she wanted to remind me she was still there, watching, waiting. And then it escalated.
One morning, I stepped outside to grab the paper. And there it was. The N-word, spray-painted across my garage door in thick, ugly red letters. I froze. For a moment, I could not breathe. The morning air felt sharp in my lungs. My heart hammered in my chest. My stomach twisted as I stared at that word, that centuries-old blade, now carved into my home. Neighbors came out, drawn by the sight. Some gasped. Some whispered. And Patricia stood across the street, sipping coffee, her lips curled in the faintest smirk. That was it. That was the breaking point. I called the police. They came, took photos, filed a report. But I knew, we all knew, nothing would come of it easily. Hate does not get solved in neighborhoods like this just because the person who smiles at the officers is wearing pearls. I was not just angry. I was done. I cleaned the garage door myself, scrubbing until my arms ached, till the red paint smeared into pink streaks and finally faded. With every stroke, my anger hardened into something sharper. A plan. If Patricia wanted a war, I was going to give her one she could not edit.
Greg helped me set up security cameras. Real ones this time. High definition. Every angle covered. We aimed them at my driveway, the front door, even the strip of sidewalk Patricia loved to parade down. And then I waited. It did not take long. Two nights later, around 11:00 p.m., I caught movement on the feed. Patricia, creeping through the shadows like a thief. She was carrying something. A bucket. She tiptoed up to my lawn, looked around, and started pouring. When I checked in the morning, the grass along my walkway was dead, burned out in streaks where she had dumped some kind of chemical. That was the evidence I needed. I downloaded the footage, clipped it, saved it to multiple drives. Then I went to the board.