Everything about the backyard was personal.
And suddenly it felt as though strangers had been studying our home as a business opportunity.
My wife folded her arms.
“Change the gate code.”
I nodded.
“Already arranged.”
She looked toward the windows.
“And have the security company check every access point.”
“I will.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she said something that made my stomach turn.
“What if somebody had gotten inside while our daughter was swimming?”
I didn't answer immediately.
Because I had been thinking the same thing.
The following morning, our security contractor inspected the gate system, verified the access permissions, replaced the damaged window's temporary covering with a secured installation pending the final glass repair, and confirmed that no unauthorized codes had been activated.
The technician reviewed the gate's access history.
He found repeated unsuccessful keypad attempts on the Tuesday afternoon shown in the recording.
Several different four-digit combinations had been entered.
None worked.
I stared at the log.
“So they were testing codes?”
“That's what the record is consistent with,” he answered.
“Can you identify who entered them?”
“Not from the keypad alone.”
I looked toward the security camera.
“But we have the video.”
He nodded.
“Then the timestamps should help correlate the activity.”
We preserved the information.
The technician also confirmed something important.
The HOA possessed no remote administration rights over my gate.
It could not generate valid access codes.
It could not unlock the system through the neighborhood's management software.
And it could not reset my private settings.
Whoever had promised access to my pool needed either my cooperation or some way of defeating the controls.
That explained the HOA president's obsession with the keypad.
But it still didn't explain why the older man in the pale-green polo shirt had stood beside her while she threw the stone.
The answer arrived that afternoon.
My doorbell rang shortly after four.
When I checked the camera, I saw the same sixty-three-year-old man standing on my front porch.
He wore ordinary trousers and a clean white shirt.
His silver hair was neatly combed.
And he held a large brown envelope against his chest.
For several seconds, he stared at the door.
Then he turned as though he might leave.
I opened it before he could.
He froze.
“Sir?”
His eyes widened.
“I was hoping we could talk.”
I studied him carefully.
The last time I'd seen him, he'd been standing beside a woman who accused me of vandalizing my own property.
I wasn't particularly interested in small talk.