“I golf eighteen holes with the county sheriff every Saturday morning, Richard.

You put this truck in gear, and I’m calling his personal cell before you hit the front gates.”

Richard swung the truck backward in a tight arc, turning his shoulder so Emily couldn’t see the porch.

Victoria stayed put on the bottom step and lifted her glass toward the windshield, as if she were toasting good company.

In the side mirror, Richard saw Ethan reach into his suit jacket for a slim black phone as gravel sprayed up under the back tires.

The heavy iron security gates at the end of the long driveway were already swinging slowly inward, set off by the transponder hidden beneath the truck’s frame.