Instead, she took another handful of glass from the bag.
She threw it.
Then she looked toward the house.
Marcus remained motionless.
Victoria waited.
Nothing happened.
She smiled.
Then she walked back toward the gate.
Marcus watched her leave.
The broken lock swung from the fence.
He looked at the screen.
Then at the coffee on his dresser.
It had gone cold.
Marcus picked up the phone.
He made one call.
“Good morning,” a woman answered.
“Dana?”
“Yes?”
“I have the footage.”
There was silence.
“Are you sure?”
“I watched her do it.”
“Who?”
“Victoria Hale.”
Another pause.
“Then don't touch anything.”
Marcus looked toward the backyard.
“I wasn't planning to.”
“Good.”
“Dana?”
“Yes?”
“It's over.”
His attorney exhaled.
“No.”
Marcus looked at the broken lock.
“It starts now.”
The Pool
Marcus Reed had bought the house three years earlier.
It wasn't the biggest house in Crestmont Ridge.
That fact had bothered Victoria Hale from the beginning.
The neighborhood was built around the idea that homes should look expensive without appearing excessive.
Stone facades.
Perfect lawns.
Uniform mailboxes.
Trees trimmed to identical heights.
The association had rules for almost everything.
Grass height.
Fence color.
Driveway stains.
Holiday decorations.
Mailbox placement.
Pool furniture.
Exterior lighting.
Even the number of days a trash bin could remain visible from the street.
Marcus had never had a problem with reasonable rules.
He had a problem with selective enforcement.
His house sat on a quiet corner lot.
He had renovated the backyard shortly after moving in.
A rectangular pool.
Simple stone deck.
Wooden privacy fence.
A small outdoor kitchen.