anything?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Do you have evidence connecting anyone to this?”
I glanced toward Denise’s house.
“No. That’s the problem.”
The officer nodded sympathetically.
Without witnesses or footage, there wasn’t much they could do.
I felt ridiculous.
Someone had been standing on my property long enough to cover an entire car in paint, yet I couldn’t prove who had done it.
Later that day, I saw Denise near the fence.
I almost ignored her.
Instead, I stopped.
“Someone painted my car last night.”
Her eyes widened dramatically.
“No!”
“Yes.”
“The whole car?”
“The whole thing.”
She acted shocked.
Concerned, even.
“That’s horrible.”
I watched her carefully.
“I called the police.”
“Good. You should.”
Nothing changed in her expression.
No nervousness.
No hesitation.
Nothing I could use.
“I hope they figure out who did it,” she added.
“Me too.”
Then she smiled and went back
