I didn't speak, just opened the door wider.
He stepped inside, nervous, walked to the window, looked out at the flower bed, then at the patrol cart making another lazy loop. "I was out front," he said. "Didn't think she'd, you know... she said the girl attacked her. That's what's going around now, that Murell swung the can."
I finally answered, "She could barely hold it. You know that."
"I do," he said, his voice cracking. "I know."
He turned and opened his wrist, showing me a screen, paused, tapped it. Then I saw it: the fork, the swing, Murell's cry. He'd been wearing a heart monitor that records ambient video; it caught the whole thing.
He didn't offer the file. Not yet. But he looked like a man who would eventually. Then he turned to go. "I didn't show you this," he said. "But I might if things get worse."
And things were about to get much worse.
I didn't see Jareth for three days after that. The patrol cart kept circling, though—same rotation, morning and evening, slowing just enough in front of our house to let the message settle in.
Murell stayed inside. She barely spoke during dinner, only picking at the edges of her plate with one hand. Her other arm, still bandaged, had a ring of faint bruising, yellowing now at the edges. She hadn't touched her walker since the morning after the assault. I didn't press her. I just sat beside her while she watched the rain slide down the window and the hope bed sit so quietly in it.
The violation fines began accruing: $50 a day, then $75. Then an administrative escalation surcharge appeared in my HOA account, followed by a final notice to remove non-compliant vegetation by Friday at 5:00 p.m. or face lien action. It was always dressed up in language—compliance, appearance, harmony—but all I heard was, "Erase your daughter's joy or lose your home."
Friday came. I didn't remove a thing.
At 4:37 p.m., I saw Vonda step out of her SUV, clipboard in hand, storming down the street like a lawman with a warrant. Her heels clicked against the pavement like gunshots. She wasn't smiling this time. She was calculating, controlled—dangerous in a way only bureaucrats with unchecked power can be.