Then I went upstairs.
At 2:17 a.m., my phone vibrated.
GARAGE EXTERIOR MOTION.
I opened the notification.
The first camera showed a figure near the driveway.
Dark hoodie.
Baseball cap.
Gloves.
The person stayed low beside the parked work van on the street, then moved toward the side of the garage.
A second alert appeared.
SIDE GATE MOTION.
My heart rate climbed instantly.
I turned on the upstairs hallway light and opened the live feeds.
The side-gate camera showed the same figure testing the latch.
Locked.
He returned toward the driveway.
Then something unexpected happened.
A second person appeared at the edge of the exterior camera.
A woman.
Light jacket.
Blonde hair pulled back.
She stayed near the garage wall, directly beneath the visible camera.
Because of the angle, the camera captured only the top of her head and shoulders.
She looked upward once.
Then she moved out of frame.
The man approached the garage.
He did not enter through a door.
Instead, he reached beneath the rubber edge of the overhead door with a long plastic strip.
I was already calling 911.
The dispatcher told me not to confront anyone.
I stayed upstairs.
The alarm system had a silent notification mode, and I had not triggered the siren yet because I wanted the intruders away from the house before police arrived.
Then the garage door lifted six inches.
Ten.
Fifteen.
The man rolled under.
The interior camera switched to infrared.
His face came into view when he stood.
Chase.
No mask.
No ambiguity.
He looked around the garage as if he had been there before.
Then he walked directly to the Ferrari.
For a moment, he only stared at it.
I remember thinking that maybe he would stop.
Maybe the reality of standing inside somebody else’s garage would finally break through whatever story he had told himself.
It did not.
He pulled something from his pocket.
A key.
He dragged it slowly along the driver-side rear quarter panel.
The sound was faint through the camera microphone.
A dry metallic scratch.
He did it again.
Then across the door.
Then the front fender.
My stomach twisted.
The Ferrari had paint-protection film, but the pressure was deep enough that I could see the line catching infrared light.
Chase moved around the front.
He struck the passenger mirror with a short metal flashlight.
Once.
Twice.
The housing cracked.
Then he pulled a small bottle from his hoodie and poured a thick white liquid across the windshield and hood.
Later we learned it was an industrial marking paint.
At that moment, I only knew he was damaging the car.
The dispatcher kept telling me officers were close.