I was starting to understand why documentation frightened Victoria more than arguments did. She could control a meeting by interrupting people. She could make a complaint sound personal. She could persuade a frightened homeowner that paying a fine was easier than fighting it. But she couldn't easily explain why a contractor had been paid twice for work that happened once, or why records disappeared after members asked to inspect them.
On Sunday, the police came to my house.
I had been in the garage repairing a loose drawer slide when a patrol car stopped at the curb. A young officer and an older deputy stepped out. They did not approach with their hands on their weapons or treat me as a suspect. They asked whether I was Riley Castellanos and said a complaint had been made about intimidation connected with an upcoming association meeting.
"Intimidation?" I repeated.
The older deputy looked at the folder in my hand. "We were told you were organizing people to confront board members at their homes."
"I'm helping organize a properly noticed meeting in the community center. The invitations are in my kitchen. You're welcome to look at a copy."
I showed them the meeting notice, the email from Nadia, and the voicemail in which Victoria had threatened consequences if I continued asking questions. The younger officer read the papers carefully.
"Has anyone threatened physical harm?" he asked.
"Not that I know of. I'm documenting possible financial misconduct."
The older deputy closed his notebook. "There doesn't appear to be a crime in inviting homeowners to a meeting. If anyone threatens you or tries to interfere with you physically, call us. Don't try to settle it yourselves."
I asked for the incident number. They provided it. I thanked them for coming and watched them drive away.
Two hours later, Victoria posted a message in the association forum stating that police were "investigating organized harassment" by certain residents. I saved the post alongside the officers' incident number. Then I went back to my garage.
Monday brought a new invoice from the association. Not just to me. To all 847 homeowners.
It announced a special assessment of $3,000 per household, due within thirty days, to address urgent infrastructure needs. There was no project description beyond "community safety and long-term asset preservation." The letter did not identify a meeting at which members had approved it. It threatened late charges and collection proceedings against homeowners who failed to pay.
I stared at the amount. Across 847 homes, the assessment would demand more than $2.5 million. Even after everything I had seen, the audacity of it left me temporarily speechless.
Mrs. Chen called within minutes. "Riley, I can't pay this. I just helped my daughter with tuition."
"Don't pay anything until we understand the authority for it," I said, careful not to tell her to ignore a lawful obligation. "Forward the notice to Nadia. She's looking at the procedures now."
The Johnsons called. Then Mr. Rodriguez. By noon, my phone had received twenty-three messages from people who were frightened that failure to pay meant a lien on their homes.