Chapter 4
On the live feed, mother and son fussed with the charger for half an hour.
They switched cables, reset breakers, wiped the connector, and nearly sweated through their clothes. A few neighbors passed by. Some stopped to watch. Some snickered.
One older woman from across the hall, Mrs. Carter, who had never liked Mrs. Watson, stood nearby with open delight written all over her face.
“Well, would you look at that,” she said. “Guess mooching off someone else’s charger finally came with side effects.”
Mrs. Watson’s face flushed dark red.
“Mind your business,” she barked. “It’s a mechanical failure. Equipment issue. You understand?”
Bobby slammed his car door so hard the whole garage echoed.
“Mom, can you stop embarrassing us and figure something out?”
Watching them jump around on my screen like clowns, I felt half the frustration in my chest dissolve.
Don’t rush, I thought.
The real show hasn’t even started yet.
The next afternoon, while I was eating seafood by the beach, my phone sent me a motion alert.
I switched back to the camera and nearly laughed out loud.
Mrs. Watson had brought someone with her.
A man in a gray work uniform, carrying an old dented toolbox. He didn’t look like a licensed electrician. He looked like the kind of guy who fixed microwaves on folding tables by the side of the road.
“Take a look at this thing,” Mrs. Watson said, pointing wildly, spitting as she talked. “Why won’t it give power? Can you break the lock on it?”
The man squinted at the charger with a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
“It’s got a smart lock. Not easy. You’d have to open it up and rewire it.”
“Then open it,” she said, waving a hand. “If it breaks, I’ll take responsibility.”
I almost smiled wider.
The charger had cost me well over a thousand dollars, factory original, professionally installed.
And she was standing there talking like she owned it.
Just then, the security guard on patrol rode over on an electric scooter.
“Hey, what’s going on here?” he asked.
Mrs. Watson answered before the handyman could.
“My charger isn’t working. I called someone to repair it.”
My charger.
Not hers.
The guard hesitated. “Well… be careful. Don’t damage anything.”
The property manager, Mr. Chen, had always been terrified of Mrs. Watson making a scene. He had long since instructed the staff to avoid conflict with her whenever possible.
The guard didn’t ask any more questions. He rode away.
With that silent permission, the handyman grew bolder. He pulled out a large screwdriver, jammed it into the seam of the charger housing, and pried.
Crack.
The plastic shell split.
I watched the screen with a calm heartbeat and a thrill I didn’t even bother denying.
That sound.
That was the opening note of their downfall.