The device was still attached to its mount, but the indicator was dark. The soil below the tree was soft from recent rain and showed several boot impressions, along with a narrow tire mark that might have belonged to a bicycle or garden cart. I photographed the cable, the mount, and the surrounding area without moving anything. Then I called Deputy Bell and reported the damage.
She arrived with a flashlight and examined the scene. "You have a suspect?" she asked.
"No," I said. "I have a damaged camera and footprints. I haven't seen who did it."
She nodded approvingly. "That's the right answer. We'll document what we can. You said the camera had online backups?"
"It uploaded clips periodically. The older recordings should be safe."
"Then don't assume this erases anything. Replace it when you can, and don't go hunting for the person who did it."
I looked down at the severed cable. The person who cut it probably believed they had destroyed a record. What they had actually done was create another incident I could describe precisely, with photographs and a police report, without having to exaggerate it. I was tired of being pushed into a conflict, but I had not forgotten how to keep evidence organized.
Back at the cabin I downloaded the most recent cloud archive and checked that the clips opened correctly. Several hours were missing after the cable failed, which I noted rather than pretending the record was complete. The earlier crossings remained preserved, including hundreds that were clear enough to place vehicles on the disputed section of road.
I called Gerald before bed. He had been waiting for my update and asked whether the meeting was still happening. When I told him about the vandalized camera, he sighed in a way that made him sound older than he had on our first call.
"This is what I was afraid of," he said. "Not the road itself. People making a place ugly because they don't want to admit they might be wrong."
"You didn't do anything wrong by wanting peace for Evelyn," I told him.
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "I sometimes think I should've stopped them that first year. But she had chemotherapy appointments, and I was building ramps for the house, and every day felt like it came with one more thing I had no strength for. I thought letting people pass over gravel was harmless."
"The choice to mislead residents wasn't yours," I replied.
"Maybe not," he said. "Just promise me you won't let this turn into hurting the families. You can defend your land without making somebody's kid miss the school bus."
I promised. I meant it. The people who had harassed me had made the cabin feel less safe, but I was beginning to see how easy it would be to answer that cruelty with something just as broad and careless.
That night I lay awake until after midnight. I imagined myself at the microphone while forty-seven families stared back. In Charlotte, I had presented structural reports to rooms full of skeptical executives, but those people did not live a mile from my front door. They could reject a recommendation and never see me again. The Pine Ridge residents would remain my neighbors no matter what happened Thursday.