Meanwhile, I was setting my own trap for Trevor. My security system now included motion-activated lights, backup cameras, and direct alerts to my phone. If that little criminal wanted to break into my house, I was going to catch every second of it in high definition.
"The beauty of this setup," I told Bernard while adjusting camera angles, "is that Trevor doesn't know we're ready for him. He thinks he's hunting me, but actually I'm hunting him."
The rough texture of the camera housing felt solid and reassuring under my fingers. 20 years as an electrician had taught me the value of quality equipment and proper installation.
Phil finished our financial presentation that Friday night. 67 slides of damning evidence organized with prosecutorial precision. Bank statements, fake invoices, shell company documentation, comparative analysis showing how much each household had been overcharged.
"The average family in this neighborhood has been robbed of almost $1,000," Phil announced, showing us the final slide. "Multiply that by 78 homes, and you're looking at systematic theft that would make the mafia jealous."
We practiced our presentation until we could deliver it in our sleep. Janet would handle the legal explanation. Phil would present the financial evidence. I would wrap up with the call for action, immediate removal of Vivian from all positions, full financial restitution, and criminal prosecution.
"What if she doesn't show up?" Dolores asked during our final rehearsal.
"Even better," I replied. "Nothing says guilty like the defendant fleeing the scene."
But I had a feeling Vivian would show up. Her narcissism wouldn't let her miss the chance to defend herself in public. And her son's criminal behavior was escalating toward the kind of mistake that would give us all the ammunition we needed.
The meeting was set for next Friday, 7:00 p.m. The evidence was ready. The community was mobilized. Time to bring down the house of cards Vivian had built on stolen money and stolen peace of mind. Justice was coming to Willowbrook Estates.
Vivian's panic became obvious the moment our door-to-door campaign started gaining momentum. Word travels fast in a neighborhood when people finally have permission to talk about their shared nightmare.
Monday morning, I found a new notice taped to my door. Not my mailbox this time, but slapped right on my front door like a foreclosure warning. Emergency board meeting canceled. Annual meeting postponed indefinitely due to facility maintenance issues.
I called the community center immediately.
"Maintenance issues? What maintenance issues?"
"None that I know of," the manager replied, sounding confused. "Mrs. Ashworth called Friday claiming there was a plumbing emergency, but our maintenance crew found nothing wrong. Your reservation is still active."
So Vivian was now lying to public facilities to avoid accountability. The desperation was showing, but her son was taking a more direct approach to problem solving.
Tuesday night, I woke up to the sharp stench of spray paint drifting through my bedroom window. My security cameras had captured everything. Trevor, dressed in black like some wannabe ninja, vandalizing my mailbox with bright red letters spelling si t. Really, snitch? What was this? Middle school?
Wednesday morning brought escalated vandalism. All four of my truck tires had been slashed. The rubber curled back like flower petals. The metallic taste of pure rage filled my mouth as I surveyed the damage.
But Trevor had made a crucial mistake. My cameras caught him in the act. License plate and face clearly visible as he crept away from my driveway with a knife still in his hand.
"Now we're talking felony destruction of property," Officer Martinez said, reviewing the footage on my laptop, "plus the spray paint vandalism from last night. This kid's building quite a rap sheet."