I stared at her.
"It was mounted on my house, facing my side yard and driveway."
Judith pointed toward the shattered plastic.
"Well, it won't be recording anything now."
She smiled triumphantly.
And that was when I said the words that made her expression change.
"Judith, you destroyed the wrong camera."
She stopped.
For one moment, I saw genuine fear in her eyes.
Then she laughed.
"Don't be ridiculous."
I nodded toward the damaged mounting bracket.
"That was just one of them."
Her smile faded.
I looked directly at her.
"And it wasn't where the recording from last night was stored."
Judith went completely still.
For several seconds, she seemed unable to breathe.
Then she asked a question that told me more than she intended.
"What exactly did you see last night?"
I hadn't mentioned last night.
Not once.
I slowly lowered my hand.
And for the first time, I understood that her attack wasn't really about a security camera.
It was about whatever she'd been doing behind my house at 1:17 in the morning.
Six years earlier, my wife and I had moved into Briar Glen because we wanted a peaceful place to raise our daughter.
The neighborhood looked like something from a real estate magazine.
Large two-story homes lined quiet streets with mature oak trees, perfectly maintained lawns, and wide concrete driveways.
Behind the houses was a wooded greenbelt that separated the residential area from a large undeveloped property.
A walking trail curved through the trees.
There was a small pond, several benches, and an open grassy area where children sometimes played soccer.
Our house was particularly attractive because the backyard overlooked the greenbelt.
We could sit on the patio in the evening and watch birds moving through the trees.
For years, it felt like the perfect place to live.
My wife, Hannah, was a thirty-six-year-old elementary school librarian with long chestnut-brown hair, green eyes, and the patient temperament required to spend every day answering questions from eight-year-olds.
Our daughter, Lucy, was ten.
She had inherited my stubbornness and Hannah's ability to notice when someone was trying to avoid a question.
The house had cost us nearly everything we'd saved.
I ran a small residential construction business specializing in remodeling kitchens, bathrooms, and older properties.
Hannah's salary provided stability during slow months.
Together, we'd worked for years to save the down payment.
When we finally received the keys, Hannah cried in the kitchen.
I remember standing beside her while Lucy, then four, ran through the empty living room.