Audio came through crisp on all three. I heard him say, "Widower's dead wife's name final boss level. Hilarious, bro." The response from his friends came through the phone speaker, laughing. Someone said, "You wild, bro."
Someone else said, "You're the king." I had my hand on my holster. I didn't draw. 4 hours 30 minutes until 7:00 p.m. Thursday, not tonight. Let the mother go down first, then the son.
Preston finished. He crawled back over the fence, wiped his hands on his sweatshirt, and walked back to his mother's guest house. He never once looked over his shoulder. I stepped forward out of the shadow, walked to the plank. The paint was still wet.
It smelled like nail polish and burning plastic. I touched the wood next to Rachel's name, didn't smear the paint, just laid my palm on the cedar next to the carving. "Sorry, love. He touched your name. By tomorrow night, he'll be in county lockup, and she'll be in the back of Owen's cruiser.
I promise." The screen door slid open behind me. Cooper was standing there in his pajamas. "Dad, are you crying?" "No, buddy.
Just cold air in my eyes." "You always say that." "Yeah, I know." Cooper walked out barefoot on the cold deck. He handed me a plate.
"I made you a sandwich. I burned it a little. Come inside." I followed my son back into the warm kitchen and ate the sandwich standing up. Thursday, 6:45 p.m. Cooper and I pulled into the Willow Ridge Clubhouse parking lot.
It was already packed. I counted seven Range Rovers and three white Tahoes belonging to Vivian's inner circle. Preston's black Range Rover Sport was parked directly in front of the entrance in the spot marked VIP-HOA with vanity plate PSTNH. Owen met us at my truck, suit jacket, badge tucked in the inner pocket. He shook Cooper's hand like Cooper was another detective.
Cooper stood up straighter after that handshake. Cooper, you're with me, back row, third seat from the aisle. When it happens, you don't stand up unless your dad calls you. You understand? Yes, sir.
Miles Sutter was already inside setting up two tripods against the back wall. He saw us walk in and gave me the smallest nod. His photographer, a young woman named Amelia Pratt, was checking her camera batteries in the corner. The clubhouse was designed for 180. 200 people were inside standing along the walls two deep.
Fluorescent LED lights washed everything the color of a hospital corridor. The room smelled like Chanel No. 5 and drip coffee that had been sitting since 3:00 p.m. Metal folding chairs squeaked every time anyone shifted. Vivian stood at the podium in a white sleeveless designer dress and pearl earrings the size of grapes. Her hair was blowout perfect.
She was scrolling her phone holding it low against her hip so no one could see the screen. I could see it. She was previewing an Instagram reel she'd already recorded. Caption ready. Elegant leadership moment.