Willowbrook Estates was the kind of neighborhood where houses had three-car garages, lawns looked as if they belonged in glossy lifestyle magazines, and the homeowners association had strict rules about everything from fence heights to the exact shade of your mailbox. It was quiet, extraordinarily expensive, and fiercely proud of its reputation for safety.
Eighteen-year-old Kendrick Briggs had moved to the neighborhood just two weeks earlier with his mother, Lisa Thompson. Lisa was a formidable attorney at a downtown law firm, specializing in civil rights cases. She had worked tirelessly her whole life to provide for Kendrick, and this house was her triumph. Though their home was smaller than some of the surrounding mini-mansions, it was vastly larger than anywhere Kendrick had ever lived.
Kendrick was a good kid—a recent high school graduate who planned to start community college in the fall. He spent his first two weeks getting used to calling these quiet, tree-lined streets "home." But underneath the pristine surface of Willowbrook Estates, a quiet panic had been brewing. During the previous three weeks, seven bicycles had disappeared from driveways, front yards, and even open garages. No one had caught the thief, and neighborhood anxiety was growing with every new report.
It was a bright Saturday afternoon. Kendrick decided to spend the day getting to know the neighborhood, meeting people, and riding his bicycle along different routes so he could learn the sprawling layout of the subdivision.
He wore a gray hoodie with the sleeves casually pushed up to his elbows, black jeans, and worn white sneakers. Around his neck rested a pair of large headphones. They weren’t over his ears—his mother had always taught him, especially as a young Black man, to stay acutely aware of his surroundings whenever he was alone.