The voice that came through was not Dennis; it was not a colleague. It was the CEO of Sentinel Shield Services, and he was not calling to chat. The voice was loud enough that Fletcher could hear fragments through the static. Brenda, still recording, caught every word.
"Open that gate immediately! Do you hear me? Open it right now!"
Craig's smile disappeared. His hand tightened around the radio. "Sir, I was just following proto—"
"You are suspended, effective immediately! Do not speak to Mr. Owens! Do not speak to his wife! Do not speak to anyone! You will wait at that booth until your relief arrives! Is that understood?!"
Craig's face drained. The color left his cheeks like water pulling back from a shore. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. Nothing came out.
Dennis, standing three feet away, heard every word through the static. His eyes went wide. He didn't wait for instructions: he jogged to the gate mechanism and hit the manual release with both hands. The iron bars shuddered once, then began to slide open, slowly, heavily, the metal groaning against the track.
At the same moment, Victoria's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen. Her face changed. She answered quickly, turning away, pressing the phone tight to her ear.
It was another board member. And the first words out of his mouth were: "Victoria, I just got a call from Terrence Baldwin, Fletcher Owens' attorney. Do you want to explain to me why you were standing at that gate and didn't confirm a resident's identity?"
Victoria's mouth moved, but no sound came out at first. Then, stammering: "There was... it was a confusing situation. I wasn't entirely sure—"
"You signed the resident list yourself, Victoria! His photo was on page two!"
Silence.
Her phone buzzed again: another board member. Then another. One after another, the calls stacked up. Her screen lit up like a switchboard.
The gate was now fully open. Fletcher put the Range Rover in drive: slow, smooth, no rush. He rolled through the gate without looking at Craig, without looking at Dennis, without looking at Victoria.
The police officer, still standing by his cruiser, watched the scene unfold. He walked quickly to Fletcher's window before the car passed.
"Sir, I owe you an apology. I should have handled this differently."
Fletcher looked at him, nodded once: polite, measured. "You responded to a call that should never have been made. Your body cam recorded everything. That's all I'll say."