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.
I headed back up the trail, pacing faster than before. When I reached the cabin, my phone buzzed again. This time, a text from Randall: Saw Karen's brother pull up to her place just now. Might cause trouble. Just a heads up.
Fantastic. Just what I needed. A supporting cast member for Karen's circus.