Another part resented the idea of spending money just because my neighbor couldn’t behave like an adult.

Then, two weeks ago, everything escalated.

I opened my front door one morning, keys in hand, and stared at my car.

For several seconds, my brain couldn’t process what I was seeing.

My car was pink.

And I don’t mean someone had splashed a little paint on the hood.

The entire vehicle had been covered.

The roof.

The doors.

The trunk.

The windows.

The mirrors.

Even the headlights.

Someone had apparently spent hours in my driveway overnight coating practically every visible surface in bright pink paint.

It wasn’t professionally done either.

There were thick streaks along the doors.

Drops had hardened down the sides.

The windshield was almost completely covered.

I walked closer in disbelief.

“What the hell?”

Then I slowly looked toward Denise’s house.

Her curtains were closed.

The trash cans had been annoying.

The hose had been childish.

This was something else entirely.

Someone had deliberately ruined my car.

I called the police immediately.

An officer walked around the vehicle taking pictures.

“Do you have security cameras?”

“No.”

“Did anyone see anything?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Do you have evidence connecting anyone to this?”

I glanced toward Denise’s house.

“No. That’s the problem.”

The officer nodded sympathetically.

Without witnesses or footage, there wasn’t much they could do.

I felt ridiculous.

Someone had been standing on my property long enough to cover an entire car in paint, yet I couldn’t prove who had done it.

Later that day, I saw Denise near the fence.

I almost ignored her.

Instead, I stopped.

“Someone painted my car last night.”

Her eyes widened dramatically.

“No!”

“Yes.”

“The whole car?”

“The whole thing.”

She acted shocked.

Concerned, even.

“That’s horrible.”

I watched her carefully.

“I called the police.”

“Good. You should.”

Nothing changed in her expression.

No nervousness.

No hesitation.

Nothing I could use.

“I hope they figure out who did it,” she added.

“Me too.”

Then she smiled and went back inside.

That was when I finally ordered security cameras.

They were obviously too late to catch whoever had damaged my car.

But I refused to let anyone walk onto my property unnoticed again.

—

Yesterday morning, I was drinking coffee when someone began pounding on my front door.

Not knocking.

Pounding.

“Christine!”

I recognized Denise’s voice immediately.

I put down my mug and opened the door.

She stood there in a bathrobe with messy hair and one slipper barely hanging onto her foot.

Her face was bright red.

She looked furious.

For once, there was no smug smile.

“DID YOU DO THIS?” she screamed.

She pointed toward her driveway.

“I swear, Christine, I will destroy you!”

I stared at her.

“Do what?”

“You know exactly what!”

“I really don’t.”

She jabbed her finger toward the street again.

“LOOK!”

I stepped outside.

Then I saw it.

And I nearly laughed.

Denise’s car was completely covered in white paint.

The hood.

The roof.

The doors.

The windshield.

The mirrors.

Even the headlights.

It looked almost exactly like what had happened to my car.

Except hers was white.

I covered my mouth.

Denise spun around.

“You think this is funny?”

“No,” I said, struggling to control my expression. “I just think it looks familiar.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You did this.”

“I was asleep.”

“That’s exactly what you’d say.”

I looked more closely at the driveway.

There were paint trays near the tires.

Two rollers were lying on the pavement.

A half-empty bucket sat next to the passenger side.

Something about that bothered me.

Whoever had painted my car had cleaned up everything afterward.

No buckets.

No rollers.

No evidence.

Then I remembered something.

My cameras.

“Wait.”

Denise crossed her arms.

“What?”

“I installed security cameras after my car was painted.”

Something flickered across her face.

Only for a second.

But I noticed it.

I turned around and went inside.

She followed me without being invited.

“Pull up the footage.”

“I’m trying.”

I opened the security app and started scrolling backward through the night.

Until then, the most exciting things my cameras had recorded were delivery drivers, squirrels, and a neighborhood cat that liked wandering onto my porch.

Then I reached 2:14 a.m.

Motion appeared near the edge of the screen.

A pickup truck slowly came into view.

I paused.

Denise leaned closer.

“Who is that?”

“I don’t know.”

The truck stopped in front of her house.

A man got out.

Then another man climbed from the passenger side.

They walked to the back of the truck and began unloading buckets.

Denise suddenly stopped breathing normally.