Rebecca had hated the truck.
Not really.
She hated the fact that I refused to replace the bench seat.
The contractor reached into his shirt pocket.
Pulled out a folded receipt.
He handed it to me.
Karen stepped forward.
“That is private business documentation.”
The receipt carried the Cypress Hollow crest.
But the payee line did not say Cypress Hollow Homeowners Association.
It said:
WHITCOMB PROPERTY SERVICES LLC.
I looked at the contractor.
“May I photograph this?”
“Yes.”
I photographed both sides.
“What’s your name?”
“Raymond Hodge.”
“Mr. Hodge, did she tell you the truck belonged to the HOA?”
“She said it was part of an HOA-controlled estate liquidation.”
“Did she tell you the registered owner was alive?”
Raymond looked at me.
“No.”
Karen said:
“This is harassment.”
The older man with the checkbook closed it.
I turned toward the deposit tin.
A QR code.
I did not touch it.
I scanned it from two feet away.
Payment page opened.
Account recipient:
KAREN WHITCOMB.
Not the HOA.
Not Whitcomb Property Services.
Karen personally.
I took screenshots.
Account name.
Link.
Timestamp.
Then a screen recording showing the URL path.
Karen saw.
“You have no right to access that.”
“It’s taped to a coffee can on my lawn.”
“That code is for authorized buyers.”
“I’m looking at the payee.”
“This is a temporary collection account.”
“Why is a homeowners association auction depositing money into your personal account?”
“Because the association’s payment processor—”
“Stop.”
I held up one hand.
“I’m not asking you to explain it to me.”
“Explain it to the officer.”
Across the street, Megan Carter stood beside a stroller.
Thirty-seven.
Short blonde ponytail.
Running shoes.
Mother of two.
Her husband, Eric, was a civil engineer.
Megan served on the neighborhood landscaping committee mostly because, as she once put it, somebody needed to stop Karen from banning native plants.
She called across the street.
“Karen.”
Karen ignored her.
Megan raised her voice.
“The board hasn’t met in six weeks.”
Karen turned reluctantly.
“That isn’t relevant.”
“It is if you’re claiming a board vote.”
“There was an emergency authorization.”
“When?”
“April fourteenth.”
Megan laughed once.
“No.”
Karen’s face changed.
Megan continued.
“April fourteenth was Easter brunch.”
“That does not mean—”
“You ran the raffle table for three hours.”
“I was there.”
“Eric was there.”
“Half the neighborhood was there.”
“No meeting happened.”
Karen said:
“A closed executive session occurred afterward.”
“Who attended?”
“That is confidential.”
Megan pushed the stroller across the street.
“No.”
“It isn’t.”
“Closed session attendance goes in the minutes.”
“I read the newsletter.”
“There was no meeting notice.”
Karen’s voice rose.
“You are not an attorney.”
Megan looked toward me.