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The park had proven the best cover. Heather had circled around the cul-de-sac on Crispin’s ten-speed. She’d been careful to avoid being sighted by anyone in cars. Just in case.

That niece loved to go fast and her bike reflected that. Heather’s entire body would protest later—she still wasn’t anywhere near healed, damn it. But she’d taken the back way in. She’d left Crispin’s bike by the rear shelter house and crept the rest of the way on foot.

She’d seen the first pair of men then. Men didn’t wear dark clothing and creep around the back door of a mansion in Hughes Heights without nefarious reasons.

Properties in Hughes Heights were between five and ten acres on average. Most had fences and gates. There were plenty of places for her to take cover as she crept closer.

There was no gate or fence separating her from the Barratts’ place. Their property looked right out at the park, almost merging with that space. On the other side of that park, on the main green, was the HOA clubhouse, the pool, the gym, the helicopter pad for the wealthy and elite.

Plenty of places for men to hide. To escape.

And to hurt others.

There was a light on in the Barratts’ side window. One light. But there were multiple cars in the drive. She saw Gunnar’s TSP-issue SUV right there. That confirmed it. He was there. Two other vehicles were there—she recognized them as Powell’s parents’. She’d seen them before.

Yet there was one dim light on inside.

And something was definitely going down.

Heather crept closer. She rounded the Barratts’ garage.

There was another car, parked right in front. A Barratt-Handley company car. With the door open, and the light on, illuminating the interior.

She slipped closer.

That was when she saw the hole in the driver’s side window. She knew exactly what she was looking at.

Heather stepped closer.

And looked inside.