One man carried paint toward her driveway.

The other followed with rollers.

I looked at her.

“You know them.”

“No.”

“You do.”

“I said I don’t.”

On the screen, the two men began painting Denise’s car.

They moved quickly.

One worked on the driver’s side.

The other took the passenger side.

They covered the windows first.

Then the doors.

The hood.

The trunk.

Denise stared at the phone.

“This is insane.”

Then something happened that neither of us expected.

A third person stepped out of the pickup truck.

A woman.

She stood underneath a streetlight long enough for the camera to catch her face.

Denise made a strange choking sound.

“Oh my God.”

I turned toward her.

“Who is that?”

She didn’t answer.

On the footage, the woman pulled out her phone and recorded the men painting Denise’s car.

Then she started walking toward my house.

My stomach tightened.

“Why is she coming over here?”

Denise actually stepped backward.

I kept watching.

The woman stopped at the edge of my driveway.

Then she pointed toward my ruined pink car.

One of the men walked over and examined it.

They spoke for a moment.

There was no audio, but the woman’s body language made it obvious that she was furious.

Then she turned and pointed toward Denise’s house.

I paused the video.

“Denise.”

Silence.

“Who is that woman?”

Denise swallowed.

“My sister.”

I stared at her.

“Your sister?”

She sank into one of my kitchen chairs.

The rage had disappeared.

So had the smug attitude I had gotten used to seeing.

For the first time in almost a year, Denise looked scared.

“Her name is Sabrina.”

I glanced at the frozen video.

“What does your sister have to do with what happened to my car?”

“Nothing.”

“That clearly isn’t true.”

Denise rubbed both hands over her face.

Then, finally, she said,

“I borrowed her truck.”

My stomach dropped.

“When?”

She didn’t answer.

I already knew.

“Two weeks ago?”

Denise closed her eyes.

That was all the confirmation I needed.

Suddenly, every strange thing that had happened over the previous year felt different.

The trash cans.

The missing hose.

The cut hose.

Every time I had questioned whether I was imagining things.

Every time I wondered if I was unfairly blaming Denise simply because we hated each other.

Now she was sitting in my kitchen, and I finally had my answer.

“You painted my car.”

She opened her eyes.

“I was angry.”

I laughed once.

There was nothing funny about it.

“You covered my entire car in paint because I complained about your dog?”

“It wasn’t only about that.”

“Then what was it?”

“You always acted like you were better than me.”

My mouth fell open.

“I asked you to stop your dog from destroying my flowers.”

“You embarrassed me by reporting me to the HOA.”

“Your dog tore up my garden three times.”

“I know.”

“No, Denise. I don’t think you do.”

She stood suddenly.

“I didn’t realize fixing the car would cost that much.”

I stared at her.

“That’s what you have to say?”

“I’m not defending myself.”

“You came to my house five minutes ago screaming that you’d destroy me because someone did exactly the same thing to your car.”

Denise looked away.

That seemed to finally hit her.

I picked up my phone.

“I’m calling the police.”

Her head snapped toward me.

“Christine, wait.”

“No.”

“Please.”

That word stopped me for half a second.

I had never heard Denise say please to me before.

“I’ll pay to repair your car.”

“You should’ve offered that two weeks ago.”

“I was stupid.”

“You were cruel.”

Her expression slowly crumbled.

Not dramatically.

She simply looked exhausted.

Like all that anger had finally burned itself out.

“Sabrina found pink paint on my clothes,” she admitted.

I looked toward the footage.

“She kept asking me where it came from. I told her it was nothing.”

“She figured it out?”

Denise nodded.

“She saw your car yesterday afternoon. Then she called me last night.”

“What did she say?”

Denise gave a miserable little laugh.

“She told me that if I wanted to behave like a child, she was going to make sure I understood what it felt like.”

I looked through the window toward Denise’s white-painted car.

Suddenly, everything made sense.

It hadn’t been random vandalism.

Her sister had been sending her a message.

I still called the police.

This time, Denise didn’t try to stop me.

When the officer arrived, I showed him the footage.

Eventually, Sabrina admitted that she had arranged to have Denise’s car covered in white paint.

And more importantly, Denise finally admitted that she had been responsible for my car.

Statements were taken.

Insurance companies became involved.

Repair estimates started piling up.

The entire situation became expensive and embarrassing very quickly.

Strangely, I didn’t enjoy Denise’s humiliation nearly as much as I had imagined I would.

For almost a year, I had fantasized about finally catching her.

I thought proving I had been right would feel satisfying.