“Every second.”
Patricia stared at the camera.
Then at the detective.
And something happened that I'd been waiting weeks to see.
The certainty disappeared from her face.
Because she'd spent three months insisting that I couldn't prove who had been damaging my property.
Now the detective investigating those incidents had just watched her commit another one.
And the woman who spent years hiding behind HOA authority was finally facing somebody who had the power to examine what she'd really been doing.
My name is Daniel Brooks.
I was forty years old, a Black American homeowner, a father, and the owner of a small engineering consultancy specializing in commercial water systems and building infrastructure.
I wasn't particularly wealthy.
My business was successful enough to provide a comfortable life, but I still worked long hours, paid ordinary bills, and spent plenty of evenings worrying about invoices that clients promised to settle next week.
I had moved to Scottsdale with my wife, Nadia, six years earlier.
At the time, she was thirty-two, a public-school art teacher with an infectious laugh and an almost unreasonable love of flowers.
She believed every house needed something growing near the front door.
Not necessarily anything expensive.
A pot of herbs.
A flowering vine.
A rosebush.
Something that made the place feel alive.
When we bought our first home, she planted a small garden beside the porch.
We couldn't afford a landscaper.
So we spent weekends digging holes, pulling weeds, and arguing about whether the flowers were getting enough sun.
I handled the irrigation.
She handled everything else.
Sometimes, when I finished installing a new line, she'd stand beside me with her hands on her hips.
“Daniel?”
“Yeah?”
“You're an engineer.”
I would smile.
“That's what the degree says.”
She'd point toward the sprinkler.
“Then why is it watering the sidewalk?”
I would stare at the water.
Then sigh.
She'd burst into laughter.
That was Nadia.
She could make fun of me without ever making me feel small.