As the warm glow from Mr. Collins’ backyard lights stretched across our now exposed yard, my father pocketed his phone with a heavy sigh. We stood there, the four of us—my mother, father, sister, and I—digesting the unnerving reality of what the footage suggested.

The next morning, determined to get answers, my father placed a call to the local authorities. He explained the situation, emphasizing the unauthorized removal and the conversation we had seen between Mr. Collins and the mysterious workers. The officer on the other end promised to send someone over to investigate, but the uncertainty lingered in the air.

In the meantime, my mother found solace in the garden, tending to the flower beds that had once thrived under the tree’s protective canopy. She spoke softly to the flowers as if reassuring them—and perhaps herself—that everything would be alright. My sister, younger and fiery, took to the internet, researching local laws on tree removal and property disputes. She was a force to be reckoned with, and I was grateful to have her on our side.

By noon, an officer arrived to assess the scene. He listened attentively to our account and reviewed the footage. “This is peculiar,” he admitted, scratching his head. “Normally, you’d find some record of such an operation if it were legitimate. I’ll have to dig a bit deeper into this.”

As the officer left, our attention turned again to Mr. Collins. Maybe there was a misunderstanding, we hoped. Maybe there was an explanation that didn’t involve deception. We decided to approach him once more, this time with the newfound information from the city and the officer’s advice.

Mr. Collins answered the door, his face a blend of concern and something else—a subtle defiance we hadn’t noticed before. When we confronted him with the footage and the city’s message, his demeanor shifted.

“Now, hold on,” he said, raising his hands defensively. “I didn’t say anything because I thought it was some mix-up. Those men told me they had a job to do, and who was I to question it? They said it was scheduled maintenance.”

My father’s frustration rose, but he kept his tone even. “And you didn’t think to tell us? Or ask why we weren’t informed?”

Mr. Collins hesitated. “I suppose I should have. But, to be honest, it did cross my mind that maybe you were removing it for something else—there’s been talk about the power lines, after all.”

We returned home, more confused than before. It felt like pieces of a puzzle were scattered around us, yet none seemed to fit.

As the days stretched on, the officer returned with an update. “We’ve identified the truck from the footage,” he informed us. “It belongs to a local contractor, but they claim they have no record of a job at your address.”

With suspicion hanging heavy in the air, we realized this was far from over. The officer promised to keep us updated, but the sense of violation was palpable.

That night, as we sat around the dinner table, the shadows played on the walls, and the absence of our tree loomed large. It seemed that the roots of this mystery, much like those of our lost tree, ran deep and tangled.