Days forty-six through forty-eight showed that Deandra's desperation was reaching a critical ceiling, and desperate suspects always get incredibly sloppy.
At 11:00 p.m. on day forty-six, a fake Facebook profile appeared in the community group under the name *“Concerned Pine Haven Resident.”* The post claimed I was facing active federal firearms charges and constituted a direct danger to the neighborhood's children. It was a complete fabrication—my record was pristine—but the post secured forty-three shares before the platform's automated systems killed it twelve hours later. The strategic damage was done.
My phone exploded with concerned text messages from neighbors. The next afternoon, a mother down the street actively crossed to the other side of the asphalt when she saw me collecting my mail. That sting sat heavy in my chest.
I screenshotted the page, went down to the station, and filed a formal cyber-harassment report. Detective Alicia Brennan from cybercrimes traced the routing IP address in thirty minutes: it originated from a residential router located three doors down from Deandra's house—either Jackson operating from his cell phone or Deandra utilizing his wireless network. Sloppy either way.
On the evening of day forty-seven, I was out back grilling chicken when I heard footsteps approaching my front walk. I walked around to find Deandra standing on my doorstep, holding a store-bought apple pie in a plastic container. The artificial scent of cooked fruit mixed with a perfume so heavy it could stop a wall clock.
"Garrett, I think we should talk—neighbor to neighbor," she said, offering a tight smile that didn't reach her eyes.
I let her into the entryway but remained standing, not offering her a seat.
She set the pie down on the console table as if we were old friends having a pleasant chat. "Look, we started our relationship on a very bad foot. What if I personally wave all your outstanding motorcycle fines? A completely clean slate."
"In exchange for what, Deandra?" I asked, my face blank.
"Drop your administrative requests," she said smoothly. "And vote with my section this Saturday to strengthen the board's enforcement authority. You possess federal credentials; the community respects that stature. I need someone credible on my side when the independent auditors review the books."
There it was: the real operational motive. She had caught wind of the audit demand Marcus had filed quietly the week prior.
"Auditors?" I kept my expression entirely neutral. "Is there an issue with the ledger?"
She recovered quickly, smoothing her athleisure jacket. "Just standard operating procedures, Garrett. Do we have a deal?"