"We bait them," I said quietly.
All three men looked at me. Ramon's brows lowered. Chris nodded slowly. Tyler smiled a sharp, dangerous smile.
Finally, Ramon asked, "What do you have in mind?"
I glanced back toward Linda's house, her windows lit behind those ever-watchful curtains. "She's obsessed with control," I said. "So we make her believe she's losing it. And we let her and Donny reveal everything themselves. Because people like Linda always keep talking, and people like Donny always slip. We just have to make sure we're listening."
We spent the next morning buried in notes, digital files, and cups of terrible gas station coffee—the kind that tastes like burnt rubber but keeps you awake long enough to make questionable decisions.
Chris had barely slept. His eyes were red, his hair a mess, but his brain was firing on all cylinders. He spread spreadsheets and printouts across my dining table like a detective in a crime thriller, strings and pins only missing because he preferred software. Tyler sat with his arms crossed, watching the screens with restless energy. Ramon leaned against the kitchen counter, calmly flipping through the HOA covenant booklet that might as well have been written in ancient Sanskrit.
Meanwhile, I paced. The vandalism, the graffiti, the look in Linda's eyes when she smiled through my window... it all tightened inside my chest like a vise. I wasn't just dealing with a petty neighbor anymore. This was a coordinated attack fueled by resentment and whatever twisted logic she'd built inside her head.
"All right," Chris said suddenly, tapping his keyboard. "I've been reviewing Donny's digital footprint, and something sticks out."
Tyler snorted. "His whole life sticks out. Guy screams 'I peaked in high school.'"
"No," Chris said, turning the laptop toward us. "Look at this."
It was a timestamped record, a geotagged photo from Donny's private security job. The location was a long stretch of suburban streets near Maple Ridge Estates.
"He worked a patrol shift the night before the vandalism," Chris said. "Look at the time: he clocked out at 10:41 p.m. And the vandal hit around 11:00."
"It's tight, but possible," Ramon said, "especially if he drove straight here."
Tyler leaned forward. "What else you got?"
Chris flipped to a different tab—phone activity logs obtained through methods I didn't ask about, because plausible deniability is a beautiful thing.
"This is weird," he said. "Between 8:00 p.m. and midnight, Donny made one call."
"To who?" I asked.
Chris clicked. A single name appeared: Linda Carver.
Tyler let out a low whistle. "Well, there's your smoking gun."
"Not enough," Ramon said immediately. "A phone call could mean anything. She could claim it was about neighborhood safety, or asking about security options, or some mundane crap."
He was right. We needed something undeniable. Something even Linda couldn't lie around.
Which brought us back to the plan.
"To bait them," Chris said, "we need to make Linda think she's losing control of the narrative: that the police are taking your side, that you're gathering evidence, and that her slander's falling apart."
"And then she panics," I finished.
"And makes mistakes," Ramon said.
"And calls Donny," Tyler added with a grin, "to whine or scream or confess."
"That's the goal," Chris agreed. "If she reaches out to him again, we catch it."
I took a long breath. "So how do we get her to reach out?"
Tyler grinned. "We poke the dragon."
That afternoon, I showered, put on clean clothes, and walked out onto my porch with a folder in my hand. It wasn't real—just blank printer paper—but it looked official enough. And more importantly, Linda was watching. She always was.
Her curtain shifted. She froze behind the glass like a startled owl. I met her gaze. Didn't smile. Didn't wave. Just walked to my car, slid the folder onto the passenger seat, and drove away.
I didn't need to go far. I just circled the neighborhood, let people see me driving, then parked at the police station for twenty minutes. When I came back, Linda's curtains fluttered again.
Good. Poking the dragon had begun.
Inside, Chris monitored everything remotely. "She logged into Facebook twice since you left," he said. "Made two draft posts, but didn't publish. Her heart rate is spiking."
"Her heart rate?" Tyler frowned.
Chris stuck out his chin proudly. "She uses a cheap off-brand smartwatch. The app syncs to her tablet. And her tablet—"
"Yeah, yeah, we know," Tyler grumbled. "You hacked it?"
"Don't say it. Don't imply it. Don't acknowledge it," I warned.
"Right," Chris said. "I analyzed it." We all snorted.
After sunset, we launched phase two. I walked straight to Linda's house—not onto her property, not past her walkway, just the sidewalk, well within the law and well within her view.
She stood at her door before I even knocked, filming me on her phone. "What do you want?" she snapped.
"Just to let you know," I said in my calmest voice, "the investigation into last night is progressing faster than you probably expected."
Her nostrils flared. "I have no idea what you're talking about."