Chapter 1: The Red Light
The little theatrical hand saw had barely touched the artificial tree trunk when the security camera above the nearby house began to turn.
Margaret Harlan stopped.
She had come prepared to make a point.
The large mature oak beside the residential street stood untouched behind her, its broad canopy spreading over the quiet American neighborhood. Margaret had positioned a lightweight artificial tree-trunk prop beside it, intending to create the appearance of dealing with the tree without actually harming the real oak.
She had expected an argument.
She had expected someone to come outside.
She had not expected the camera.
A small red indicator illuminated beside its lens.
The camera made a soft mechanical whir and followed her.
Margaret slowly looked up.
Her confident smirk disappeared.
“Wait—what?”
She raised the saw slightly, then lowered it.
“That thing is recording?”
The question came out louder than she intended.
She looked around the street.
No one answered.
For a moment, she seemed to consider simply walking away.
Instead, she turned toward the camera.
Her eyes narrowed.
She moved the saw behind her oversized handbag as though hiding it could somehow change what the camera had already captured.
That was when a front door opened.
David Mercer stepped onto his porch.
He was in his early forties, athletic and broad-shouldered, wearing a dark teal polo shirt and khaki pants. He stared at Margaret, then at the saw, then at the artificial trunk beside the oak.
His expression changed from confusion to disbelief.
“What are you doing here?”
Margaret straightened.
Her startled face became a forced smile.
“I was just checking something.”
David came down the porch steps.
“Checking what?”
“The tree.”
He looked at the real oak.
Then he looked at the artificial trunk.
Then at the saw.
Margaret’s smile tightened.
“I was concerned about it.”
“You brought a saw because you were concerned?”
“It isn’t a real saw.”
David stopped several feet away.
That was true.
But it did not answer the more important question.
Why had she brought it?
Margaret shifted her grip.
“I don’t think you understand what I’m doing.”
“No,” David said. “I think I’m trying to understand exactly what you’re doing.”
She glanced toward the security camera again.
The lens was still aimed directly at her.
The moment she had arrived believing she could control the situation had already passed.
But instead of leaving, Margaret stepped closer to the camera.
She stared into the lens.
“You know what?” she said. “If you’re watching, you can watch.”
David reached for his phone.
Margaret noticed.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling the police.”
Her forced smile vanished.
“You don’t need to do that.”
David looked at the saw in her hand.
“I think I do.”
Margaret had come expecting to make something happen.
Now the first consequence of her decision was already unfolding.
And this time, she could not talk her way out of the camera’s view.
