The late-morning sun had already turned the backyard into a bright, almost postcard-perfect scene.
White stone tiles surrounded the swimming pool, the water shimmered beneath a cloudless blue sky, and carefully trimmed hedges formed a green wall around the property. Beyond them, the neighborhood's expensive homes rose behind tall trees and decorative fences, each driveway spotless, each lawn carefully maintained.
It was the kind of neighborhood where people talked about property values as though they were talking about religion.
Everything had to look perfect.
Everything had to stay controlled.
And, according to Patricia Whitmore, everything had to be done her way.
Patricia stood outside Marcus Reed's backyard gate and slowly looked over her shoulder.
The street was quiet.
No cars were moving.
No gardeners were working.
No neighbors appeared to be watching.
She smiled.
Then she reached into the large beige tote hanging from her shoulder.
Her fingers closed around a small metal tool.
Patricia pulled it out.
She glanced once more toward the house.
The sliding glass doors were closed.
The curtains inside were drawn halfway.
She couldn't see anyone.
"Perfect," she whispered.
She inserted the tool into the black metal gate latch.
The lock resisted.
Patricia frowned.
She tried again.
The metal clicked.
She twisted harder.
The latch bent.
A second later, the lock gave way with a sharp snap.
Patricia smiled.
She pushed the gate open.
She stepped inside.
Then she turned around.
A few seconds later, three women appeared from behind the hedge.
Another two followed.
Then a sixth.
All of them were white American women from the neighborhood, dressed in bright swimsuits, oversized sunglasses, sandals, and expensive-looking cover-ups.
Patricia spread her arms.
"Come on."
One woman laughed.
"Are you sure?"
Patricia rolled her eyes.
"Of course I'm sure."
"But this is his private pool."
Patricia looked offended.
"It's a community."
"Technically—"
"I said it's fine."
The women exchanged glances.
Then they entered.
Patricia swung the gate wider.
"See?"
She gestured toward the pool.
"Nothing happened."
The women laughed.
Within minutes, towels were scattered across lounge chairs.
Drinks appeared.
Someone turned on music from a phone.
One woman dipped her feet into the water.
Another jumped in.
Then Patricia followed.
The water exploded upward.
"Come on!" she shouted.
Two more women jumped.
The backyard filled with laughter.
Nobody noticed the small black security camera mounted beneath the patio roof.
Nobody noticed the second camera hidden near the rear garden wall.
And nobody noticed the tiny maintenance marker attached to the pool equipment enclosure.
At least, not yet.
Marcus Reed was upstairs.
He had been working late the night before and had slept longer than usual.
He woke when he heard laughter.
At first, he assumed it was coming from the street.
Then he heard a splash.
Marcus opened his eyes.
He listened.
Another splash.
Then a woman's voice.
He sat up.
His expression changed.
He knew that voice.
Patricia.
Marcus got out of bed.