Chapter 5 - The Surveillance Footage
By Wednesday morning, the quiet town of Oak Ridge felt like a pressure cooker waiting to pop.
I was staying in Jenna’s guest room, sleeping better than I had in months despite the heavy weight of my pregnancy. Every morning began with prenatal vitamins, a walk around the quiet residential park, and a legal debrief with Evelyn Vance.
At ten o’clock, Detective Miller from the county sheriff’s department called my cell phone.
“Miss Hayes?” the detective asked. “Regarding the criminal mischief report on your vehicle. We canvassed the neighborhood along Travis Mercer’s street yesterday afternoon. We caught a break.”
My heart skipped a beat. “You found something?”
“The homeowner across the street from the Mercer residence has an elevated high-definition security camera mounted under his second-story gutter. It records continuously in 4K resolution.” Detective Miller paused, the rustle of case papers audible over the line. “The footage from July fourth shows a female suspect matching the description of Brooke Mercer walking toward your vehicle at approximately three-fifteen in the afternoon. She holds a key in her right fist, drags it along the passenger door, turns around, laughs, and gives a high-five to an adult male identified as Mason Keller.”
A long breath escaped my lungs. “Can you confirm identity?”
“Positively,” Miller said. “The resolution is clear enough to read the license plate on the pickup truck parked next to her, and the camera caught her face head-on as she walked back across the lawn. We have issued a formal summons for criminal mischief in the third degree—a class-four felony due to the body shop repair estimate of thirty-eight hundred dollars. The warrants were signed this morning.”
“What happens next?”
“Deputies are serving the summons at her workplace today.”
Within two hours, my phone erupted.
Not from Travis. From Denise.
*“You monstrous, vindictive bitch!”* Denise shrieked in an unhinged voicemail that Jenna and I immediately routed to our legal archive. *“Brooke is twenty-two! She’s an assistant manager at a boutique! You had the police show up at her job in handcuffs over some paint scratches? Drop these charges right now or I will make it my personal mission to ruin your life! You hear me? I will destroy you!”*
Ten minutes later, Evelyn Vance called from her office.
“I assume Mrs. Mercer has reached out to you?” Evelyn asked, her tone dry and amused.
“A screaming voicemail,” I answered. “Threatening to ruin my life if I don’t drop Brooke’s charges.”
“Splendid,” Evelyn said smoothly. “That is witness tampering and third-degree intimidation under state statute. Forward the audio file to my assistant immediately. I am filing for an emergency civil protection order on your behalf this afternoon. Neither Travis, Denise, Brooke, nor Mason Keller will be legally permitted to approach within five hundred feet of your person, your residence, or your workplace.”
“Has Travis agreed to the DNA test?”
“He didn't have a choice,” Evelyn replied. “I served him with our motion for expedited paternity determination alongside the notice of conversion of assets. His attorney—a small-claims practitioner his mother retained—called me an hour ago practically begging for an out-of-court settlement. I declined.”
“What did his lawyer say?”
“He said Travis is still claiming complete innocence, but he agreed to submit to the DNA swab on Friday morning at nine o’clock at LabCorp’s downtown forensic facility. Miss Hayes, your blood draw will take place at the same facility thirty minutes prior. Once those samples are logged, the chain of custody cannot be broken.”
“And the results?”
“Five business days,” Evelyn said. “Next Wednesday morning, the truth becomes an unalterable matter of judicial record.”
That afternoon, I drove to the local body shop to sign the insurance authorization for my car. The shop manager, an older man named Sal with grease-stained fingers, walked me out to the bay where my silver car sat under the fluorescent lights.
He ran his thumb over the jagged white lines dug through the clear coat and base paint.
“Whoever did this wanted you to hurt, kiddo,” Sal said quietly, shaking his head. “This wasn't an accident. They put their whole body weight into that key.”
“I know,” I told him.
May you like
“Well,” Sal smiled, wiping his hands on a blue rag, “metal can be buffed, primed, and repainted better than new. The people who did it? They don't get a fresh coat of paint when this is over.”
***
