Donna tapped her folder. "Metadata says otherwise. Uploaded from your phone using your personal hotspot. The internet never lies, Ms. Campbell."
Even the mediator smiled a little at that.
By the time we left the room, Skyler looked like someone had unplugged her from the wall. Mitchell muttered something about "reviewing options," which was lawyer-speak for "we're doomed, but too proud to admit it."
Outside, Donna put on her sunglasses and grinned. "You make enemies the way other men make coffee."
"Efficiently."
"Old habit," I said. "Thanks for handling that."
"Don't thank me yet," she said. "People like her, they don't surrender. They self-destruct. Keep your cameras rolling."
She was right. A week later, the county court dismissed Skyler's lawsuit with prejudice, meaning she couldn't file it again. The verdict landed like a thunderclap on the HOA page.
Cheryl Bennett posted a single comment: Justice takes a boat ride. It lasted fifteen minutes before vanishing, but screenshots live forever.
Then came the real storm. Within days, an anonymous letter circulated among HOA members listing every incident Skyler had caused over the past three years: trying to reassign a disabled parking space to her yoga instructor, taking a neighbor's lawnmower for "community use," and spending HOA funds on decorative clipboard holders.
I didn't write it; I didn't have to.
By Friday, a petition appeared: Remove Skyler Campbell as HOA President. It passed unanimously.
When I got my copy in the mail, it came stapled to a note in neat handwriting:
Dear Mr. Reed, While the HOA does not condone theft or trespassing, we sincerely thank you for doing what none of us had the courage to do. Enjoy your peace. — Cheryl Bennett.
I pinned it to my fridge.