Then I upgraded the cameras.
After that, I did nothing.
No phone calls.
No warnings to Denise.
No confrontation.
The spigot was on my land.
The hose was not connected.
The warning was present.
If nobody trespassed, nothing happened.
Three mornings later, my phone notified me of motion.
6:08 a.m.
I opened the camera feed.
Miguel entered frame.
He walked to the spigot.
Then he stopped.
For two full seconds he looked directly at the new metal plate.
I watched his face.
He read it.
I know he read it because his lips moved slightly.
Then he glanced toward the fence.
He hesitated.
For one second, I thought he might leave.
Instead, he connected the hose.
I closed the video.
I did not feel victorious.
That surprised me.
I felt tired.
The next day, the hose returned.
Then the next.
Silver Creek’s annual summer social was that Saturday.
I knew because Denise had banners installed at the entrance.
SUMMER AT SILVER CREEK.
A CELEBRATION OF COMMUNITY.
Curtis drove past the sign and called me.
“Community,” he said. “That’s rich.”
“Maybe they’re celebrating everybody whose water she hasn’t stolen.”
“Small guest list.”
Friday afternoon, catering vans arrived.
Music equipment.
Flower arrangements.
Cases of wine.
Rental glassware.
A balloon installation in cream and gold.
Through the trees, I could see workers polishing the pool deck.
Denise was preparing for one of her performances.
The summer social mattered to her.
It was not simply a party.
It was proof.
Proof that Silver Creek was successful.
Proof that she was central to it.
Proof that the women who attended wanted invitations.
Proof that the board needed her.
Proof that the world she had constructed still reflected back exactly the image she wanted to see.
Saturday morning arrived bright and hot.
By eleven, luxury SUVs began passing my property.
Mercedes.
BMW.
Range Rover.
Lexus.
Denise’s white Porsche sat in her drive.
Women carried bottles wrapped in tissue paper.
Some wore cover-ups over swimsuits.
Others arrived already dressed for the pool.
The catering staff arranged food beneath white umbrellas.
Music started.
At noon, laughter carried over the fence.
I was on my porch with iced tea.
Curtis came over around twelve-fifteen.
“You spying?” he asked.
“No.”
“You’re sitting where you can hear them.”
“It’s my porch.”
He lowered himself into the other chair.