And sunlight warmed the concrete deck surrounding Devon's pool.
He woke early and checked his phone.
There were no new overnight security alerts.
Miguel had confirmed an inspection appointment for the following week, and Devon had already decided the pool would remain unused until the outstanding concerns were resolved.
He made breakfast.
Reviewed several emails.
Then spent the late morning cleaning inside the house.
Around noon, his father called.
"How's everything going?"
Devon considered the question.
"Quiet so far."
The older man chuckled.
"Sometimes quiet's the best thing you can ask for."
They talked for nearly twenty minutes.
His father asked about work, the weather, and whether Devon had considered visiting the family the following weekend.
Devon promised he would.
Before hanging up, the older man said quietly.
"Don't let that HOA woman get you so upset that you stop enjoying your life."
Devon smiled.
"I'm trying, Dad."
"I know."
His father paused.
"Just remember that a house is supposed to be where you can rest."
Devon looked toward the backyard.
For several seconds, he was quiet.
Then answered.
"I'm going to get that back."
At 3:48 that afternoon, Sandra Whitfield received another message from Rebecca.
The former program administrator had found an updated version of the proposed incident report.
The description had become more specific.
It referred to an apparent electrical hazard near Devon's pool and recommended immediate closure followed by a managed remediation arrangement.
Sandra checked the time.
The supposed incident still hadn't occurred.
She called the association's attorney.
Then contacted local authorities to provide the new information.
Because the matter involved a possible threat to a person's property and safety, she was advised to preserve the documents and explain the sequence of events clearly.
Sandra gathered the relevant records.
The disputed invoices.
The business affiliation documents.
The earlier draft report.
And the new version.
Then she drove toward the local police station, where she'd arranged to speak with an officer.
She didn't know that Linda was already preparing to enter Devon's backyard.
At 4:19, Devon received a motion alert from the side of his house.
He had just finished showering.
He was shirtless, with a bright-yellow towel wrapped around his waist, when his phone vibrated.
The camera showed someone approaching the wooden garden gate.
Devon opened the live feed.
Linda Prescott stood outside.
She wore a navy-blue one-piece swimsuit with white floral patterns.
Her silver-blonde hair was neatly styled.
And she was looking over her shoulder as though checking whether anyone had noticed her arrival.
Devon's stomach tightened.
Then he saw the long black object in her hand.