nearly laughed.
Denise’s car was completely covered in white paint.
The hood.
The roof.
The doors.
The windshield.
The mirrors.
Even the headlights.
It looked almost exactly like what had happened to my car.
Except hers was white.
I covered my mouth.
Denise spun around.
“You think this is funny?”
“No,” I said, struggling to control my expression. “I just think it looks familiar.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You did this.”
“I was asleep.”
“That’s exactly what you’d say.”
I looked more closely at the driveway.
There were paint trays near the tires.
Two rollers were lying on the pavement.
A half-empty bucket sat next to the passenger side.
Something about that bothered me.
Whoever had painted my car had cleaned up everything afterward.
No buckets.
No rollers.
No evidence.
Then I remembered something.
My cameras.
“Wait.”
Denise crossed her arms.
“What?”
“I installed security cameras after
