I looked down at the brick on my rug, then back at the phone screen displaying Brenda in all her bathrobe-clad glory. "Okay, Kraken," I whispered to the empty, drafty room. "You want to play hardball? Let's play."
I didn't bother cleaning up the glass. I needed the scene intact. I sat on the stairs, adrenaline coursing through me and making sleep impossible, and dialed 911.
"911, what is your emergency?"
"Yes," I said, my voice scarily calm. "I'd like to report an attack. Someone just threw a brick through my living room window."
"Are you injured, sir? Is the perpetrator still there?"
"I'm fine. And no, she went back inside. Her house is right next door. My neighbor Brenda."
I hung up the phone and waited for the sirens, clutching the brick like a newborn baby. The construction phase was over. The demolition phase of Brenda was just beginning.
The police response time for a brick through a window in suburbia at midnight is surprisingly fast. Flashing blues and reds lit up the street like an impromptu disco within eight minutes. It was Officer Miller again, looking even more exhausted than he had that afternoon. He walked up my driveway, hitching up his belt, his partner, a younger female officer named Davis who looked far too alert, trailing behind him.
"Jack, right?" Miller sighed, looking at the gaping hole in my house. "You and Brenda again."
"Come on inside, Officer. Mind the glass," I said, ushering them in.
They stepped gingerly over the shards. Officer Davis whistled low. "That's a heck of a throw."
"There's the weapon," I said, pointing to the brick on the rug. "Note's on the coffee table. 'Satan's Spawn.' I think it's her pet name for me."
Miller picked up the note using the corner of his pen, reading it with a weary grimace. "Okay. So you think Brenda did this because of the construction noise earlier?"
"I don't think she did it, Officer Miller. I know she did it."
"Did you see her? Witnesses?"
"Better. 4K video with night vision."
I held up my iPad. I had queued up the video, paused right at the apex of Brenda's windup. Miller leaned in, squinting at the screen. Davis peered over his shoulder. I pressed play.
They watched in silence as Brenda crept across the lawn, heaved the brick, and did her little victory nod. Officer Davis snorted.
"Is that... is she wearing curlers?"
"Yeah," I said. "It's her combat gear."
Miller watched it twice. He stood up straighter, the exhaustion momentarily replaced by the stiff posture of duty. "Well, that's pretty definitive criminal mischief. Felony level, given the cost of that window. I'm guessing the glass alone was three grand."
"Custom thermal pane," I confirmed.
"Right. Stay here, Jack. We're going to go have a chat with Brenda."
I watched from my newly ventilated living room as the two officers walked next door. They knocked. Nothing. They knocked harder. Eventually, the lights flicked on.
Brenda opened the door about two inches, the chain still on. I couldn't hear the conversation, but I could hear the tone. It started with high-pitched denial. Then it escalated to screeching indignation.
Then I heard Miller's voice, loud and firm. "Ma'am, open the door now."
A moment later, the door opened fully. Brenda was there, still in the bathrobe, clutching the lapels tight. She was gesturing wildly toward my house. I saw Miller hold up his own phone. He was showing her the video.
Brenda stopped mid-screech. She stared at the phone. Then she looked at my house, then back at the phone. Her reaction was incredible.
She didn't crumble. She didn't cry. She doubled down.
"That's not me! That's doctored! He hired an actor. It's deepfake technology. He threw it himself to frame me!"
Miller wasn't having it. He pulled out his handcuffs. The ensuing struggle was brief but memorable. Brenda tried to pull the "do you know who my husband is" card. Nobody knew who her husband was. Rumor was he lived in another state just to escape her.
Then she went limp, forcing Officer Davis to practically drag her to the squad car. As they stuffed her into the back seat, her hair curlers clicking against the roof of the car, she locked eyes with me standing in my broken window. If looks could kill, I would have vaporized on the spot.
They drove off and silence returned to Elmwood Terrace, save for the whistling wind. I didn't sleep that night. I spent the time boarding up the window with plywood and planning my next move.
The police charged her with felony criminal mischief. She made bail by morning, of course, but the criminal charges were just the appetizer. I was hungry for the main course.
The next day, Tony showed up, took one look at the plywood and the shattered glass still on the floor, and shook his head. "The Kraken went nuclear, huh?"
"Yeah. She's out on bail."