But I could not let emotion cloud my process. I documented everything. The data logs from my smart-home system were a gold mine, creating a minute-by-minute timeline of their occupation. I logged every time they used the Sonos system, creating a playlist of their terrible musical taste, mostly cheesy eighties soft rock. I had a log from the smart toilet in the master bath, a ridiculous splurge, I admit, that recorded every use. I noted the drop in weight of the premium coffee beans in my automated espresso machine and the corresponding increase in the machine’s water consumption. I created a spreadsheet cross-referencing the power consumption of the guest bedrooms against their vacancy, proving they had hosted guests. On one occasion, I watched in silent rage as they entertained another couple on my back patio, serving them my best single-malt scotch and boasting about the perks of being on the HOA board. They were treating my home like a free luxury hotel and social club.
The key, I knew, would be to prove intent. I needed to prove that Barbara knew she was there illegally and had a plan to conceal her presence. This is where modern technology gave me an almost unfair advantage. Many of my internal security cameras had microphones, which I had legally installed for security purposes. My state’s laws operated on one-party consent for recording conversations, and since I was a party to the surveillance of my own home, I could legally record them. I remotely activated the audio on the camera in my home office, the room where Barbara seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time. I hit pay dirt almost immediately. I recorded a phone conversation she had with a friend, her voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “Oh, it’s fabulous, Marge,” she crowed. “The owner is some rich tech nerd who’s off in Asia for a month. The house is just sitting here empty. The least I can do is make sure everything is operational.” She laughed, a sound like grinding gravel. “Gary is in heaven with the eighty-five-inch TV. We’ll be sad to go back to our little shoebox next to the main road.”
The smoking gun, the piece of evidence that would utterly annihilate any defense she could dream up, came two days later. I was listening in live, my heart pounding, as she and Gary had an argument in the kitchen. Gary, who always seemed to be walking on eggshells around her, sounded nervous. “Barb, are you sure about this? What if he comes back early?” he whined. And then Barbara delivered the line that sealed her fate. Her voice was sharp, dismissive. “He won’t. I have his itinerary. He’s not due back until the first. He’s a creature of habit. We just have to make sure we’re completely out of here by the morning of the thirty-first. Clean everything up, and he’ll never even know we were here. Now stop worrying and pass me that expensive olive oil.” I saved the audio file, labeled it Exhibit A, mens rea, and backed it up on three different secure servers. It was done. I had her lying, her scheming, her intent, and her admission, all in broadcast-quality audio. It was time to contact my lawyer.