The HOA meets in the Maple Hollow “community room,” which is really just Denise Harper’s oversized garage with the lawn tools shoved into one corner and a banner that says WELCOME NEIGHBORS! drooping over the folding chairs.
Fluorescent tubes buzz overhead, flattening everybody’s faces into the same washed-out beige. A Costco tub of chocolate chip cookies sweats on a card table by the door. The air smells like coffee, grass clippings, and the faint chemical tang of fertilizer tracked in on shoes.
I take a chair in the back row, partly because my hedges are on the agenda and partly because I’m not sure I trust myself not to bite anyone.
Denise taps a plastic spoon against her mug. “Let’s go ahead and get started,” she says, projecting her voice in that PTA-president way. “We have a full agenda tonight, so we’ll keep things moving.”
I tuck my hands under my thighs to stop them shaking. Sleep hasn’t visited much since the stairwell with Tessa; my nerves hum at a frequency just shy of painful. A stack of printed violation notices sits on the chair beside me, my name circled in yellow highlighter in the top one.
“First item,” Denise says, flipping through her binder, “yard maintenance compliance. We’ve had several anonymous complaints about overgrown hedges and lawn neglect.”
Heads swivel toward me so fast I can feel the air shift.
“We all know this has been a hard year,” Denise continues, and the way she says it makes grief sound like a weather event we’re all tired of talking about. “But curb appeal affects property values. We need to support each other by keeping our homes looking cared for.”
The man in front of me, Mark-from-Number-Four, raises his hand. “The hedge on Ellison’s side is blocking visibility when I back out,” he says without turning around. “My wife worries someone could be hurt.”
“I trimmed it,” I say. My voice sounds rusty. “Last month.”
“The HOA standard is no more than four inches above fence line,” Denise says briskly. “The photo we have from last week shows a… greater variance.”
She holds up a glossy printout. The image is of my front yard, zoomed in so the hedge looms like a green wave about to crash over the porch. In the corner of the frame, my uncollected packages sit in a damp cardboard tower, the shipping labels blurred but legible enough to read my name.
Glass again, I think. Somebody’s camera lens capturing my failure from a flattering angle.
“Those are deliveries of his things,” I say before I can stop myself. “My son’s. From school. From relatives. I don’t open them because sometimes I can’t breathe if I see another T-shirt he’ll never wear.”
A small silence drops into the room. Denise’s smile wobbles then resets, sympathy applied like lip gloss.
“Of course,” she says. “We completely understand. We’re just asking that packages be brought in within twenty-four hours whenever possible. They signal vacancy, and we’ve all seen those stories about porch pirates on the neighborhood Facebook page.”
A couple of people murmur agreement. One woman adds, “And, you know, it’s just… depressing.”
I picture them scrolling through the Maple Hollow page at night, posting sunset photos and lawn tips between “angelversary” collages and jokes about liquor runs to the reservoir. A curated grief feed, filtered and framed, nothing left to overgrow.
Micro-hook: if they can’t tolerate a messy hedge, what will they do with a messy story about a dead boy and a crooked guardrail?
Denise moves on, thanks everyone for “being in community,” and launches into noise complaints. Jonah used to joke that Maple Hollow runs on three things: Trader Joe’s frozen meals, SSRIs, and anonymous reporting channels.
“We’ve had several reports about late-night noise on the cul-de-sac,” she says. “Loud TV, raised voices, lights on at all hours…”
The guy from Number Eight snorts. “That’s Netflix and insomnia,” he says. “Half of us are guilty.”
A ripple of laughter passes around the room. Denise smiles, but her eyes glance toward me. “Some neighbors have mentioned concerns about, uh, intense activity across from the memorial house.”
Memorial house. That’s my identity now: land use category, not person.
“I’m a writer,” I say tightly. “I work odd hours. My office looks out over the street. That’s not a crime.”
From somewhere on the other side of the room, someone whispers, “Tell that to the cops who keep showing up.”
A different voice, hushed but not enough, answers, “She’s that poor, unstable writer, right? The one who keeps calling about the guardrail thing?”
My spine snaps straight. The words land like spit on the back of my neck.
“Can we stick to agenda items, please?” Denise says, a note of warning under the cheer. “We’re talking about general guidelines, not—”
“I’m right here,” I cut in. I lean forward so they can all see my face. “If anybody has a problem with my lights or my hedges or my grief, they can address me directly instead of whispering about my mental health.”
A woman in a floral blouse turns around just enough to give me a regretful half-smile. “We’re just worried about you, Mara,” she says. “You look so thin on your Instagram. And all those accident articles you post. It can’t be healthy to dwell.”
“Thank you for your concern,” I say. My cheeks burn so hot I can feel my pulse there. “Next time, try texting instead of diagnosing from across a folding chair.”
Denise clears her throat. “Okay,” she says brightly. “Let’s move on to security, which actually does concern all of us.”
She flips to a new tab in her binder, labeled in pink: SAFETY / SURVEILLANCE.
“We’re fortunate in Maple Hollow to have a high adoption of doorbell cameras and home security systems,” she says. “Our little bowl here on the slope means we can see who comes in and out pretty clearly.”
Everyone nods, proud of their tech and their vigilance. Outside, I know fog is starting to settle, turning headlights at the top of the hill into long smears on the row of front windows. The cul-de-sac as fishbowl.
“I wanted to make everyone aware,” Denise goes on, “that last month, we got a formal request through the HOA email for archived footage from several homes. Specifically, the night of Caleb’s memorial.”
My heart hits a wall.
“Footage of what?” I ask. My voice comes out sharper than I intend. “From whose cameras?”
Denise looks at me, then past me, scanning the room. “From any cameras that might show the street view,” she says. “Drive-bys, parked cars, people entering or leaving on foot. The request came from a security consultant working with a law firm, I believe. Very standard language.”
“What law firm?” I ask.
“I don’t have that in front of me,” she says. “I can check the email later and circle back.”
The man from Number Four lifts a shoulder. “We shared ours,” he says. “If someone’s looking into break-ins or car prowls, I’m all for it.”
“Was this about a break-in?” I ask. “Because the night of the memorial, the only crime I remember is my son being dead.”
A couple of people shift uncomfortably. Someone coughs into their elbow. The fluorescent lights buzz louder.
“The request didn’t specify criminal activity,” Denise says. “It used language like ‘incident review’ and ‘site assessment.’ Legalese, you know. Honestly, it read very routine.”
“Did they ask me for my footage?” I demand.
Denise flips through her binder again. “They specifically referenced addresses with active camera systems registered in the neighborhood directory,” she says. “So, let’s see… Four, Five, Eight, Ten, Twelve…” Her finger runs down a list.
My house is Nine.
“Wait,” I say. “So they went to everyone but me.”
“I assume they thought it would be redundant,” she says. “You mentioned on Facebook your system had a glitch that night. Maybe they saw that and didn’t want to bother you.”
The edges of my vision narrow. “Or maybe somebody didn’t want me to know they were asking,” I say.
Mark-from-Number-Four chuckles uneasily. “I doubt the HOA is part of a grand conspiracy,” he says. “We’re too disorganized.”
“I didn’t say ‘grand,’” I snap. “I said someone is gathering footage of my house without me.”
“The street,” Denise corrects gently. “Not your house. The request was specific about that. We’d never share anything from inside anyone’s home.”
That line lands with the same unintentional irony as every Ring commercial I’ve ever seen. There is no inside anymore. The whole neighborhood is one big outside to whoever has the right password.
Micro-hook: if a faceless “consultant” is already scrubbing through the pixels of my life, I’m not the one rewriting the story—I’m just the unreliable narrator reading the wrong draft.
“Can I see the email?” I ask. “The actual request. The wording. The sender.”
Denise hesitates. “I’ll have to check policy on sharing correspondence,” she says. “We try to respect everyone’s privacy.”
I laugh, short and humorless. “Privacy,” I repeat. “That’s rich.”
Someone mutters, “Here we go,” under their breath.
Denise straightens. “We’re all on the same team here,” she says. “We all want Maple Hollow to be safe and feel safe.”
“Safe for who?” I ask. “For the moms who hashtag their grief correctly? For the neighbors who don’t ask why some guardrails fold like soda cans?”
Her jaw tightens. “For everyone,” she says. “Including you.”
“You don’t get to decide what safety looks like for me,” I say.
“No one’s trying to,” she replies. “We’re just trying to keep an eye on things. That’s what the cameras are for.”
I glance toward the open garage door for air, for sky, for anything that isn’t buzzing fluorescent judgment. That’s when I see him.
Liam stands just outside the threshold, half in shadow, hands in the pockets of his dark jacket. The streetlight behind him puts a faint halo around his hair, but his face is in that familiar not-quite-dark, eyes reflective, taking everything in.
He leans against Denise’s SUV like he’s been there a while.
“You didn’t mention Liam was on the security committee,” I say, keeping my gaze on him.
Several heads turn. Denise blinks. “He’s not,” she says. “Though he did offer some general advice when we set up the neighborhood directory. He knows a lot about data retention, evidently.”
Of course he does.
“Is he the consultant?” I ask. The question comes out too fast.
Denise blinks again, confused. “What? No,” she says. “The email came from a corporate address. Something like ‘Hart Risk Solutions’ or ‘Hartman.’ I’d have to double-check. Liam’s just a resident. Like you.”
Hart. My brain snags on the syllable, filing it next to every other unexploded word in this case.
Out by the car, Liam’s eyes meet mine. He doesn’t wave. He doesn’t smile. He just watches, that gaze heavy and unreadable.
“We’re almost done,” Denise says. “Any other questions about the footage request before we move on to Halloween decorations and acceptable decibel levels?”
“Yes,” I say. “Did anyone think to ask why a law firm cares about a cul-de-sac party for a dead teenager?”
Mark sighs. “Because of liability,” he says. “If anyone tripped on a sprinkler head, there’s a claim. Welcome to America.”
Laughter ripples again, but thinner this time.
Denise lifts her hands in a calming gesture. “Let’s not speculat—”
“We live in a bowl,” I say, cutting her off. “Fog settles, headlights smear across our windows, and every angle gets recorded. We have more cameras than cops. And yet the one person who’s been screaming that something’s wrong is the one person no one listens to. You call that safety?”
Silence. The fluorescent light buzzes. Someone’s phone chimes on the table with a cheerful alert; a parent across the room glances down at a screen, thumb hovering, probably over some memorial post or reservoir rumor.
Denise clears her throat. “Thank you for your input, Mara,” she says. “We hear you. Let’s continue this offline later. For now, we need to wrap up.”
I sink back into my chair, pulse climbing, skin prickling with the awareness of being watched from every angle—inside the garage, from the ring of neighbors, from the camera mounted over Denise’s driveway, from the man in the shadows at the door.
The meeting dissolves into clusters. People mill around the cookie table, voices low, eyes flicking in my direction then away. I catch snippets.
“She used to be so normal.”
“I heard she’s doing hypnosis.”
“He moved in right after the accident, you know. Coincidence?”
I can’t tell if “he” means Liam or my own grief.
I grab my violation notice from the chair. The paper rasp against my fingers, the words VIOLATION OF LANDSCAPING STANDARDS bolded at the top, a grainy photo of my hedge framed in the corner like evidence.
When I step out into the night, the air is cold and damp, smelling of rain and pine and the faint exhaust of distant freeway traffic. Fog hugs the curve of the street, headlights from the top of the slope dragging white strokes across the row of Maple Hollow windows.
Liam pushes off the SUV and falls into step beside me without asking.
“You didn’t say you were coming,” I say, staring straight ahead. The gravel under my shoes crunches; someone’s motion light clicks on, bathing us in dull yellow.
“You didn’t, either,” he says. His voice is low, neutral. “Busy night.”
“Did you request the footage?” I ask. No preamble, no softening. “From the memorial. From everyone but me.”
He is quiet for two beats, long enough to be an answer.
“I think that’s a longer conversation than the driveway allows,” he says finally.
I stop walking. The motion light times out and clicks off, dropping us into a softer, bluish dark. Down the hill, the cul-de-sac glows through thin fog, all those windows waiting, all those cameras pointed outward, inward, everywhere.
“Then you should have started it before tonight,” I say. “Before they told me a stranger was combing through my life while my own neighbors debate my hedges.”
I take a step away from him, then another, putting distance between his silence and my door.
“Mara,” he says.
I don’t turn around.
The mechanical chime of a phone alert drifts from a nearby porch, cheerful and oblivious. Somewhere behind me, I know somebody’s doorbell camera is catching the frame: the unstable writer stalking back to her peeling blue house, the mysterious man across the street half-lit and watching.
Inside my chest, a new question roots itself, prickly and stubborn.
If the whole neighborhood is feeding footage to unseen consultants, and Liam is standing in the dark holding his own archive, which version of my life will matter when someone finally presses play?