One of his friends came to get him.
That detail mattered later.
After everyone left, the investigator remained.
She stood beside the car.
“Don’t touch it.”
“I won’t.”
“You have a specialist?”
“Yes.”
“Use somebody independent.”
“I will.”
She looked toward the street.
Then at me.
“You should know something.”
I waited.
“The HOA’s counsel has already submitted a written response claiming you have a history of staging confrontations with board members.”
I stared.
“What?”
“They said your cameras, vehicle placement, and social-media complaints show a pattern of manufacturing disputes.”
“I don’t post HOA disputes on social media.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“We checked.”
I almost laughed.
She continued:
“Was the car outside specifically because you knew I was inspecting today?”
“No.”
“You knew I was here?”
“No.”
“Why was it outside?”
“Detailing company was picking it up at noon.”
“Can that be verified?”
“Yes.”
“Keep the appointment confirmation.”
I nodded.
She looked at my clothes.
“And the pajamas?”
“I work from home.”
“Good.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She almost smiled.
“I just like facts that are too stupid to fabricate.”
That was the first time I laughed all day.
My daughter called before the detailing specialist arrived.
She was nineteen, three hours away at college, and somehow already knew more than I had told anyone.
“Dad.”
“I’m fine.”
“Is the car ruined?”
“Nice to hear your priorities are stable.”
“Dad.”
“No.”
“Probably not ruined.”
“Probably?”
“I’m waiting for inspection.”
She went silent.
Then:
“The video looks bad.”
“What video?”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Someone across the street posted it.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
“How many views?”
“Do you want the lie or truth?”
“Lie.”
“Eight.”
“Truth?”
“Seventy thousand.”
I rubbed my face.
“Delete the internet.”
“I’m working on it.”
Then her voice changed.
“Did he touch you?”
“He shoved my arm.”
“Hard?”
“No.”
“Did you touch him?”
“No.”
“Good.”
The word hit me.
I stopped.
“What?”
She sighed.
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
And I hated that she knew too.
“Dad.”
“Yes.”