The shelves.
The cabinets.
The workbench.
The SUV tire marks.
The camera.
Then I noticed something unusual.
A cardboard box beneath the workbench.
It wasn't mine.
I opened it.
Inside were HOA files.
Invoices.
Architectural applications.
Copies of resident complaints.
And several documents marked confidential.
I didn't read them.
I photographed the box exactly as I found it and called Thomas.
"Don't touch anything else," he said.
"I haven't."
"Good. That's not your property."
"I know."
"Call Karen and tell her it's there."
I did.
Her voice changed immediately.
"Where did you find that?"
"Under my workbench."
"I'll send someone."
"No."
She paused.
"Daniel."
"Your documents are here. You can arrange a lawful pickup."
Silence.
Then:
"Do not open anything."
"I haven't."
She hung up.
An hour later, Harold came alone.
He looked embarrassed.
"I didn't know those were there."
"I figured."
He picked up the box.
Before leaving, he said:
"Daniel, I owe you an apology."
"For what?"
"For assuming Karen had handled this properly."
I nodded.
He looked around the garage.
"This place means something to you."
"Yes."
He looked at the old chair.
"My father built it."
Harold nodded.
"I understand."
That was the first time anyone from the board had said those words.
Not "community."
Not "cooperation."
Not "rules."
Just:
"I understand."
Karen Changes Tactics
After that, Karen stopped talking about the garage.
Instead, she started looking for other violations.
My trash bins were apparently positioned incorrectly.
My mailbox was two inches outside an approved alignment.
My backyard shed supposedly violated a landscaping guideline.
My driveway had a crack.
My front light was "too bright."
One notice became five.
Five became nine.
Every few days, another envelope appeared.
I kept them all.
Thomas reviewed them.
"She's building pressure."
"Can she do this?"
"She can issue notices. That doesn't mean they are valid."
I sighed.
"How long can this continue?"
"As long as she thinks you'll get tired."