She knocked on his door with a business card.
“I know someone who can fix that.”
The company was called Northcrest Property Services.
Mr. Delaney hired them.
They did decent work.
A month later, Mrs. Patel across the street had irrigation damage near her flower bed.
Again, Valerie appeared.
Same company.
Then the Crawford family had part of their wooden privacy screen damaged.
Northcrest.
Another family found their mailbox knocked loose.
Northcrest.
I joked with Claire:
“Either Northcrest is the luckiest contractor in Ohio, or Valerie owns stock.”
Claire didn’t laugh.
“She recommends them for everything.”
I shrugged.
“Maybe they’re good.”
That explanation lasted until our own side gate was damaged.
I came home one evening and found the latch assembly pulled away from the post.
The wood around the screws had split.
I had used the gate that morning.
It was fine.
Valerie appeared while I was examining it.
Of course.
“That’s unfortunate.”
I looked at her.
“Did you see anything?”
“No.”
She tilted her head.
“Northcrest does good fence work.”
I smiled.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I repaired the gate myself.
Valerie seemed almost annoyed.
A week later, she asked:
“Who fixed it?”
“I did.”
“You should have had someone inspect the post.”
“It’s fine.”
“You always think you can do everything yourself.”
“I changed a latch.”
She walked away.
I thought that was the end of it.
Then things got stranger.
Two weeks later, nails appeared behind Claire’s SUV.
Not ordinary household nails.
Construction fasteners.
Scattered in a narrow area near the rear tires.
Fortunately, she saw one before backing out.
I collected them.
No camera covered that part of the driveway clearly.
Valerie saw me kneeling there.
“Problem?”
“Nails.”
“Construction nearby?”
“No.”
“You should be more careful.”
That phrase bothered me.
Not because of what she said.
Because she had used the same tone with Mr. Delaney after his fence was damaged.
With Mrs. Patel after the irrigation problem.
A tone that made every victim sound responsible for whatever had happened to them.
I installed another camera.
A few days later, our backyard motion light was turned almost completely toward the wall.
No damage.
Just useless.
The camera caught a figure moving near the side fence, but not a clear face.
The person appeared to come from Valerie’s direction.
I saved the clip.
Then I started asking neighbors questions.
Not accusations.
Questions.
Mr. Delaney remembered seeing Valerie near his driveway the evening before the fence damage.
Mrs. Patel remembered Valerie asking when her landscaping crew normally came.
The Crawfords said Northcrest had contacted them unusually fast after their screening was damaged.
“How fast?” I asked.
Mrs. Crawford frowned.
“Same morning.”
“Did you call them?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
She looked toward Valerie’s house.
“Valerie said she had already told them.”
I began writing things down.
Dates.
Damage.
Who discovered it.
When Valerie appeared.
When Northcrest was called.
How much repairs cost.
At first, I felt ridiculous.
Then I noticed a pattern in the invoices.
Several homeowners agreed to show me theirs.
Different repairs.
Different prices.
But every invoice contained a small code near the bottom.
PH-RF
Always the same.
Pine Hollow Referral.
Maybe harmless.
Then Mr. Delaney showed me something better.
A text message from Valerie.
They know you’re one of my neighborhood referrals. They’ll take care of you.
One of my neighborhood referrals.
That phrase bothered me enough that I searched business records.
Northcrest Property Services belonged to a man named Bradley Quinn.
I had seen him before.
At Valerie’s house.
She called him a family friend.
He was more than that.
Bradley was Valerie’s sister’s boyfriend.
Not illegal.
Not even necessarily suspicious.
Until I found an HOA vendor proposal submitted six months earlier.
Valerie had recommended Northcrest for emergency homeowner repairs.
The board never made them an official HOA contractor.
But Valerie had been referring residents privately ever since.
I wondered if she was receiving money.
Then I found the recording.
It happened almost by accident.
I was working in my garage one Saturday morning with the side door open.
The Porsche was on stands because I was replacing part of the exhaust system.
Valerie’s backyard sat close enough that voices sometimes carried between the houses.
Bradley Quinn arrived.
I recognized his truck.
He and Valerie stood near her side patio.