2:47 a.m.
My phone buzzed with a motion alert. I pulled up the 4K live camera feed.
There was a hooded figure crouched right by my Harley in the driveway. From the build and gait, I knew it was Jackson. He dragged a metal key across the fuel tank, deep into the paint, right through Miranda’s airbrushed name. Then he jammed a screwdriver straight into the ignition and twisted hard. Gas began to drip onto the concrete.
I felt that cold, sharp focus click into place. I pushed it down. Anger makes you sloppy. I went back inside, poured a glass of water, and waited.
6:30 a.m.
I walked outside with my hot coffee. The air smelled like wet grass, peace, and leaked gasoline.
Right on schedule, Jackson strolled across the cul-de-sac with that same insufferable smirk. "Morning, neighbor! Something wrong with your bike?" he asked, feigning concern. "Real shame when property gets damaged. Shouldn't park your trash out here, old man."
He pulled out his phone, hands shaking slightly, and dialed 911. "Yeah, 42 Larkspur! A guy just threatened to kill me! He's got illegal cameras, I think he's going to attack!"
"Good," I said softly. "Save me the trouble."
In minutes, two police cruisers pulled up. Deandra came running out from across the street, waving a stack of printed papers.