Chapter 1
The heavy, wrought-iron bars of the gate vibrated beneath Michael’s grip as he froze mid-climb. The security officer, an imposing man named David whom I had hired through a private residential security firm in Cherry Creek, stood with his boots planted shoulder-width apart, his dark uniform immaculate against the light dusting of Denver snow.
"Sir, step down," David repeated, his voice carrying the flat, uncompromising authority of a former state trooper. "You are trespassing on private property."
Michael dropped back to the pavement, his boots striking the frozen asphalt with a hollow thud. He looked bewildered, glancing between David, the high surveillance camera perched above the stone pillar, and the idling vehicles lined up behind his truck. His face flushed a dark, angry crimson beneath his designer winter coat.
"Trespassing?" Michael scoffed, throwing his hands in the air. "Do you have any idea who I am? I’m her son! This is my mother’s house!"
Jennifer stepped out of her SUV, letting the door slam shut with a sharp crack that startled the children huddled in the backseat. She marched forward, wrapped in an expensive wool wrap, her phone clutched in one gloved hand. She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head and glared into the wide-angle lens of the intercom camera.
"Mom, this isn't funny," she said, her voice grating through the speaker on my kitchen counter. "What is this circus? Open the gate right now. It is twenty-eight degrees out here, and the kids are cold. What did you do to the keypad?"
Lisa joined them, leaving her husband, Greg, sitting in the passenger seat of their sedan staring at his dashboard. Lisa looked annoyed, her arms crossed tight against her chest. "Mom, seriously? Did you hire a bodyguard? Are you losing your mind? This is exactly what we were talking about on the phone. You're behaving erratically. Open the gate so we can bring our bags in."
I sat at my kitchen table, wrapped in my favorite cable-knit cardigan, holding a mug of chamomile tea. The tea was warm against my palms, grounding me. In front of me was a tablet displaying the four-way split of the exterior security feed, alongside a manila folder Thomas Brennan had dropped off the previous afternoon.
I pressed the talk button on the kitchen console.
"David," I said, my voice coming through the gate speaker clearly, without a trace of the tremor that used to accompany my conversations with them.