Officer Ramirez did not treat me as guilty, but the accusation changed the air in my hallway. Celia said I had confronted her on Tuesday evening, waved a metal scraper, and promised she would regret touching my property. On Tuesday evening I had been teaching an online accounting class from the dining room. Twenty-four students and a recorded session could confirm it.

I showed him the camera’s field of view. It captured my porch, the walkway, and a narrow strip of sidewalk. Celia’s house appeared only as a blur beyond a maple trunk. The audio setting was off. Ramirez said the installation appeared lawful, though he could not settle neighbor disputes. He asked whether the recording from Tuesday still existed.

I opened the application expecting an empty porch. At the exact time Celia described, a hooded figure approached with an envelope and a small jar. The person kept her face down, but the coat, silver bracelet, and careful gait were familiar. She pressed the envelope under my mat, dipped a cloth into the jar, and rubbed the edge of the blue door. When a cyclist passed, she stepped behind my porch column.

Ramirez watched twice. I felt vindicated for perhaps three seconds, followed by a deeper unease. The figure was Celia, but she moved with the frightened concentration of someone who knew she was crossing a line. I could have sent the clip to every neighbor before lunch. Instead, I downloaded the original file, preserved the envelopes, and gave Ramirez a copy. He asked whether I wanted to make a property-damage complaint. I said yes, then asked him not to confront her through the lace curtain while I stood there. I wanted evidence to end the guessing, not begin a spectacle. Outside, a maple branch tapped steadily against the gutter.