My eyebrows shot up. "You're kidding."
"Wish I was," he said, lowering himself onto the porch step. "Couple of the folks down the hill mentioned lights flickering at odd hours. One neighbor said he found footprints behind his garage. Another swore his outdoor outlet had been tampered with."
My stomach tightened. So it was more than just me.
The man leaned in, slightly lowering his voice. "She's always been entitled, I guess. Acts like she's queen of the ridge. Claims she's head of some kind of mountain committee that only exists in her imagination."
I sighed. "Figures. What'd she do to you?"
He asked. So, I told him the whole story from start to finish. When I got to the part where she called the cops on me, he let out a long whistle.
"Well, son," he said, "looks like she finally messed with someone who knows what they're doing. Most folks up here don't know much about electricity. Hard to prove a theft without knowing how the system works."
"Lucky me," I said.
"Luck?" He shook his head. "Sounds more like good sense. The mountain needs more folks like you."
His words warmed me more than the coffee. But the man wasn't done.
"You should know," he said carefully. "Karen's been in trouble before. Not officially, but she's crossed lines more than once. People were too polite or too tired to fight her."
"Not anymore," I said. "I'm not letting this slide."
He nodded approvingly. "Good. Keep your eyes open. She'll fight this tooth and nail before she admits fault."
"I figured as much."
He stood slowly, brushing pine needles off his jacket. "If you need anything, you come by my place down the hill. Name's Randall."
"Thanks, Randall," I said.
"Seriously," he tipped his head. "Take care now and watch your outlets."
With that, he walked back down the dirt path and disappeared among the trees.
I sat there, letting his words settle in. This wasn't just about a cord or a few dollars of electricity. It was about someone who carried entitlement like a weapon, someone who believed rules didn't apply to her, someone who needed to be stopped. And I had a feeling the next steps were going to be even uglier and a whole lot more complicated than catching a thief with a bright orange cord. But one thing was absolutely certain: Karen had picked the wrong mountain, the wrong cabin, and the wrong engineer to mess with.
Randall's visit lingered with me long after he disappeared down the trail. The man had only stayed for a few minutes, but he dropped enough information to light a fuse inside my head. Karen hadn't just stolen from me. She'd been creeping around other properties, messing with outlets, sneaking through back trails, and most folks, according to him, were either too intimidated or too exhausted to deal with her.
I wasn't intimidated. And after everything she'd pulled, I sure as hell wasn't exhausted. If anything, I was fired up.
But before diving deeper into the Karen mystery, I needed to get my formal statement ready for the sheriff's office. They'd be calling soon, and being thorough mattered. So, I went inside, grabbed my notebook, and began reconstructing the timeline with engineer-level precision: meter readings, breaker tests, cord direction, times, dates, everything. It wasn't paranoia; it was preparation. When someone like Karen starts acting cornered, lies become their first language and volume their second.
Around late afternoon, my phone finally rang. Unknown number, county sheriff's office.
The man on the other end introduced himself as Detective Harris. His tone was firm but polite, the kind of guy who had probably seen every flavor of mountain nonsense imaginable.
"Mr. Dalton," he said. "We've reviewed the initial report submitted by officers Daniels and Cole. We'd like to schedule a formal interview with you whenever you're ready."
I said, "Good. Tonight or tomorrow morning."
"Tonight works."
He gave me a time and directions to the substation down in town. I made a mental note, finished writing in my notebook, then stepped outside for some fresh air.
The mountains were shifting into late-day gold sunlight, spilling between the pines, casting those long shadows that make everything feel somehow more peaceful. Exactly the kind of moment that used to be the highlight of my trip. Now it only reminded me how quickly peace can be broken by the wrong person.
I decided to walk the property again, this time approaching from the direction Karen would have used. I stepped off my porch and headed down the trail she'd clearly trampled dozens of times. The more I followed the path, the angrier I grew. She'd been here often—too often. Branches were snapped at arm height. Holes in the soil showed where something heavy sat repeatedly, like the reel of cord. Even the ground was worn in the same shape boots leave when someone stands in place for a while.
This wasn't borrowing. This was routine theft.
I reached the clearing halfway down the slope and crouched. From that angle, you could see my cabin's porch through the trees just enough to check if I was home before sneaking up. She had planned this. She had timed it. She had relied on the fact that I was a weekend visitor.
But then something glinted in the pine needles: a small silver metal piece. I reached down, brushed away the debris, and recognized it instantly. Part of a three-prong adapter, cheap, worn, and slightly bent. It looked like something pulled from an overloaded socket.
I slipped it into my pocket: more evidence.
I kept walking until I reached the bottom of the hill, back toward the rough area behind her home. I didn't step onto her property—no need to make myself the villain in her next dramatic police call. But I looked around from a distance. Her backyard was a disaster zone: old tires, broken appliances, a rusted swing frame, plastic bins stacked to the point of collapse. The kind of chaotic yard that screams, Stay away unless you're wearing gloves and a tetanus shot.
Then I noticed a second extension cord running through her window. This one was blue, a different gauge, a different route, and it led not to my cabin. It led uphill toward the neighbor's property.
A chill went through me, not from the wind, but from the realization that Karen wasn't just tapping my electricity. She was running a full-blown, multi-source parasitic power web like some kind of off-grid electrical octopus. And those neighbors probably didn't even know.
I backed away carefully. This was no longer just a personal vendetta. It was the whole mountain's problem.