Then anger replaced it.
“You were recording me without consent.”
“My cameras record my property.”
“This violates privacy regulations.”
“In my fenced backyard?”
“You can’t record HOA officers performing official duties.”
The Homeowner looked at the fence.
Then at her swimsuit.
Then at the waist pouch.
“Which official duty requires climbing over a fence in swimwear?”
She pointed toward him.
“Delete it.”
He laughed once.
“No.”
“Delete the footage.”
“No.”
“I’m ordering you as association president.”
“You can order whatever you want.”
She took a step toward the tablet.
The Homeowner moved it behind him.
“Don’t.”
She stopped.
Not because his voice was loud.
Because it wasn’t.
He reached for his phone.
The HOA President immediately said:
“Think carefully.”
“I am.”
“Do you have any idea what this will do?”
“To you?”
“To the neighborhood.”
The Homeowner began dialing.
She moved closer.
“Listen to me.”
He stopped.
Not because he intended to listen.
Because he wanted the camera recording every word.
“This doesn’t need to become something bigger.”
“You brought a syringe onto my property.”
“I can explain that.”
“Then explain it to police.”
Her jaw tightened.
“Do you know how these things look?”
“Yes.”
“I know exactly how they look.”
He raised the phone.
“That’s why you brought it.”
The HOA President’s eyes flicked toward the lounge chair.
The Homeowner followed her gaze.
He did not touch the towel.
Did not touch the syringe.
Did not move anything.
He remembered enough from television and common sense to understand one simple rule.
Leave evidence alone.
He called 911.
The HOA President began climbing back over the fence before he finished giving the dispatcher his address.
“Stay on the property.”
she called.
He almost laughed.
“You mean my property?”
She disappeared over the fence.
The Homeowner stood beneath the porch.
Water still dripping from his swim trunks.
Phone against his ear.
Heart pounding much harder than his voice revealed.
The dispatcher asked whether the person was armed.
“No.”
“Did she threaten you?”
“Not physically.”
“Do you know what the syringe contains?”
“No.”
“Do not touch it.”
“I won’t.”
“Are there children present?”
“No.”
That question hit him.
His Daughter.
She had been swimming in the same pool yesterday.
Her towel had been on the same chair.
Her plastic goggles usually sat in the storage basket beside it.
He closed his eyes.
The anger finally arrived.
Not explosive.
Cold.
If his Daughter had been home, she might have picked it up.
If a neighborhood child had been visiting, one careless second could have turned a malicious setup into something much worse.
That thought changed the entire event.