The second was the unmistakable click of a metal latch opening.

He was standing beneath the shaded patio of his beautiful suburban home on the outskirts of Phoenix, Arizona, wearing black swimming trunks and holding a long aluminum pool skimmer. A small bucket of cleaning equipment rested beside his bare feet, and his smartphone lay on the outdoor table.

The afternoon temperature had climbed above one hundred degrees. Sunlight reflected off the pale stone surrounding the pool, making the water look almost impossibly blue.

Everything should have been quiet.

His twelve-year-old daughter was spending the weekend with her grandmother. The pool had been temporarily closed for a circulation inspection, and a white maintenance notice hung directly beside the gate.

No visitors were expected.

Yet someone was opening the gate.

The homeowner turned.

Through the black metal bars, he saw a woman with a sharp blonde bob haircut, fair skin, and an enormous white tote bag slung over her shoulder.

She was fifty-three years old, white American, and wore a bright pink one-piece swimsuit that looked more appropriate for a luxury resort than an uninvited visit to somebody else's backyard.

She was also the president of the Copper Mesa Estates Homeowners Association.

And she was smiling.

Not the polite smile she used during community meetings.

Not the artificial smile she wore when presenting certificates to neighborhood volunteers.

This was the satisfied grin of someone who believed she had finally gotten away with something.

Behind her stood two other women.

One was a forty-eight-year-old white American woman with short reddish-brown hair, an expensive turquoise swimsuit, oversized sunglasses, and gold bracelets that jingled whenever she moved.

The other was a slightly younger white American brunette wearing a white beach cover-up over a lavender swimsuit. She carried a rolled towel, a bottle of sunscreen, and a large insulated drink container.