I opened the door before she could knock.
"You've been warned," she said flatly. "This is your final documented refusal. As of now, the board will be initiating lien placement."
"And the assault?" I asked.
Her eyes narrowed. "There was no assault. Your daughter created a safety hazard by—"
"I'm going to stop you there," I said. "We both know she didn't swing that watering can."
"Mr. Ellison, I advise you to seek legal—"
"You don't have jurisdiction over that frontage," I interrupted. "And you know it. But go ahead, file your lien. I'll be waiting."
I shut the door before she could reply.
That night, I stayed up late combing through overlay documents again. I wanted to find the crack, the overlooked technicality, the one that would make everything unravel. And sometime past midnight, I found it. Not in the plat maps, but in the maintenance records.
Gardenstone Summit had quietly shifted irrigation contractors the year prior without holding a public vote, and in the process, they rerouted surface runoff piping through zones that violated county stormwater codes. It was a minor line item on a subcontract form; most people would have missed it, but not me. I highlighted it, screenshotted it, and saved it in three separate locations.
The next morning, I stepped out onto my porch to find a white envelope pinned to the mailbox. It wasn't official—no HOA letterhead, just my name handwritten. I opened it and found a note written in small, uneven script: She threatened my seat if I spoke, but I have the footage. You're not crazy. She crossed the line. Let me figure it out.
It wasn't signed, but I knew the handwriting. I had seen it before on HOA budget memos. Jareth was trying. He hadn't turned over the footage yet, but he was moving, shifting, wrestling with something inside himself. He didn't want to be the whistleblower, but he was already halfway down the slope, and he knew there was no coming back up.