I wanted to run downstairs.
Every instinct told me to stop him.
I did not.
Cars can be repaired.
People cannot always be.
Chase kicked the front tire.
Then he opened his phone and began filming himself beside the damaged Ferrari.
He smiled.
That image stayed with me more than the scratches.
He wanted proof.
Not for police.
For attention.
Outside, the woman reappeared beneath the garage camera.
She whispered something.
The exterior microphone caught only part of it.
“...enough... go.”
Chase looked toward the opening.
He moved for the door.
Then red light swept across the driveway.
Police.
Chase froze.
The woman ran.
The exterior camera captured her moving toward the street.
Blonde ponytail.
Light-colored jacket.
White sneakers.
The officer’s body camera later showed her reaching a dark SUV parked around the corner.
She did not get away.
A second patrol vehicle blocked the exit.
At 2:24 a.m., seven minutes after my first alert, Chase was lying face down on my driveway in handcuffs.
The woman stood beside the SUV with her hands raised.
I watched from an upstairs window.
Even from that distance, I recognized her.
Denise Whitmore.
The HOA president.
Chase’s mother.
She had not been inside my garage.
But she had been standing beneath the camera while her son destroyed my Ferrari.
The officers asked me to come downstairs after they secured the scene.
I walked into the garage and stopped several feet from the Ferrari.
Under full lights, the damage looked worse.
The white marking paint had dried in thick streaks across the hood and windshield. Three long scratches ran nearly the entire driver side. The passenger mirror hung cracked from its mount. There was a dent low on the rear quarter panel I had not seen on camera.
For a few seconds, I forgot Denise and Chase were outside.
I simply looked at the car.
People often treat expensive property as though emotional attachment to it is shallow. For me, the Ferrari was not important because strangers recognized the badge. It mattered because I remembered what it took to reach the point where buying it was possible.
I remembered working nights.
I remembered the first machine I bought used because the bank would not finance a new one.
I remembered making payroll from a personal credit card during our worst quarter.
I remembered an employee whose daughter needed surgery and the choice to delay my own salary rather than cut his hours.
The car represented a long road.
Chase had turned it into a prop for his anger.
Officer Ramirez, the first officer inside the garage, asked whether I wanted to pursue charges.
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
Outside, Denise was arguing.
I could hear her through the open garage.
“This is a misunderstanding.”
The second officer told her to stop talking until investigators arrived.
She ignored him.
“My son thought the homeowner had agreed to lend him the vehicle.”
I walked outside.
Chase looked at me from the curb.
His confidence was gone.
Denise turned.
“Elijah, tell them this was a misunderstanding.”
I stared at her.