"Bluff Neighborhood Mobility Council," he muttered. "Never heard of it."
"It didn't exist until today," I said.
He whistled. "She really doesn't know when to stop."
"No," I agreed. "She really doesn't."
"All right," he said. "Send me everything. This might cross the line into attempted fraud."
I emailed him the documents, photos, timestamps, and links. He thanked me and said he'd begin verifying Karen's claims—or rather, disproving them.
That evening, as I sat on my porch reading through her booklet again, trying to decide whether "silhouette patterns" should become a running joke at the station, my neighbor Jill approached hesitantly. She looked around, making sure Karen wasn't nearby.
"Can we talk?" she whispered.
"Of course."
She stepped closer. "We need your help. The HOA board—we're done. We can't deal with her anymore."
I raised an eyebrow. "What happened now?"
"She told the board we needed to create a 'parking brigade.' She wants weekly driveway inspections, and she tried to fine one of the board members because her SUV 'felt rebellious.'"
I rubbed my eyes. "I wish I could say I'm surprised."
"She's out of control," Jill said. "We've had enough. We want to vote her out. But we need solid evidence—provable stuff, things she can't wiggle out of later."
I gestured toward the dining table inside, stacked with paperwork like a crime lab display. "I've got evidence."
Jill's eyes widened. "How much?"
"Binders. Plural. Three so far."
She let out a breath like someone who had just seen daylight for the first time in months. "This could work. But you have to be there. The board meeting is Friday."
"I'll be there."