He pulled the cart around and parked it at an angle directly behind Fletcher's Range Rover. Close. Deliberately close. Then he stepped off, crossed his arms, and leaned against the cart watching. Now there were two of them.
One in front, one behind. Craig finally walked back to the driver's window. He held Fletcher's license between two fingers, low and loose, like he was carrying a piece of trash to a bin. He handed it back without making eye contact. So here's the thing.
This address you're giving me, it doesn't match anything in our system. I'm going to need to verify this with the actual homeowner before I can let anyone through. Fletcher took his license back, slid it into his wallet, kept his voice steady. I am the actual homeowner. Craig tilted his head slightly, let out a small slow breath through his nose, almost a laugh, almost a snort.
The kind of sound a man makes when he thinks someone is lying to his face but finds it more amusing than threatening. Sir. He dragged the word out. I've been working this gate every single day for 3 weeks. I know every resident in this community.
Every face, every car, every family. And I can tell you right now, you are not on my list. Fletcher didn't blink. Call the HOA president, Victoria Ashford. She can verify who I am.
Craig shook his head slowly, like he was explaining something simple to a child. It's Saturday morning. I'm not going to bother Mrs. Ashford on her personal time because some guy showed up at the gate with a story. Some guy.
Not a resident, not a homeowner, some guy. Then let me show you the property deed. Fletcher picked up his phone and opened the saved document. The deed was right there on the screen. His name, the address, the county seal, the purchase date, everything.
Clear as daylight. He held the phone toward Craig. Craig glanced at the screen for less than 1 second, then he looked away. I can't verify digital documents. Anybody can fake something on a phone.
You know that. He stepped back from the window, created distance. Here's what I'd suggest. Come back Monday during business hours. Bring your real paperwork, the originals, and we'll get this sorted out then.
Come back Monday. To his own house, 200 ft away. The house he could probably see from where he was sitting if the hedge was a little thinner. Fletcher held still for a moment, then he spoke, low, controlled. I'd like your full name and badge number, please.
Craig's arms crossed over his chest, his jaw shifted. Craig. That's all you need. Your last name. I said that's all you need.
His tone dropped, a warning. Behind the Range Rover, Dennis shifted his weight. He hadn't said a single word this entire time, but he'd repositioned the golf cart even closer now. If Fletcher tried to reverse, he'd have to stop and ask Dennis to move. A small thing, a quiet thing, the kind of move designed to make a man feel boxed in without leaving a mark.