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Gunnar crossed the small redwood-stained footbridge that crossed the two-foot stream that ran between the Barratts’ lot and the park. There was a man sitting there on a picnic table. It didn’t take him long, even in the encroaching darkness, to identify Daniel McKellen the Second.

“What are you doing here? Making good on your threats to get Heather yourself?”

“Followed my damned father and Melvin Stillman. Bastards drove right by her house and circled the block. I think they knew I was tailing them. Summer was outside on the lawn mower. In the shortest shorts I have ever seen and a very tiny sports bra. I am still recovering.”

Gunnar understood. “How is your blood pressure?”

“I’ll let you know when it gets out of the four-digit range. That woman. All of those women. Dangerous creatures. Very dangerous. I don’t like that my father and Stillman are still circling around them.”

“Going to set up shop in their front lawn? Do guard duty yourself?” Gunnar would admit it, he didn’t like the idea that there was only one patrol unit assigned to the inside of Hughes Heights right now. The car was covering the area around the Colesons’ home, and the house Powell owned where the abduction had happened—and while Powell was in Hughes Heights, wherever she was located.

It wasn’t exactly how he wanted it—he didn’t trust anyone from the damned Wichita Falls post. Period. The patrol unit had been volunteered by good old Rhonda Hamler herself. To help out, supposedly. Since the Finley Creek post wasn’t up to the task.

He suspected they were there to spy, and report back. Gunnar wasn’t a fool, after all. The patrol in question circled around. Slowed. The driver looked at him.

“Let’s take a walk, Dan. Dinner is in half an hour. You have been invited.” And there were things Gunnar wanted to discuss. Something Daniel had said earlier was still playing on his brain.

Vacant houses. Homeowners Association. Powell owning twenty of the houses that were vacant right now. She’d bought the Victor Scott house not much more than a month ago.

Scott was connected to all of this. Wilson was connected to this. Now, Powell was connected to all of this. In multiple ways.

So, how were the two men connected to each other? Did that even matter at all?

“Scott and Wilson. That’s who we have to connect,” Gunnar said. He and Daniel were in front of Number Eight Hendricks Avenue. “Powell owns that one, too. She’s bought nineteen or twenty in the last two years. Since she got access to her trust fund when she turned twenty-eight.”

“Where exactly are all the houses she owns?” Daniel asked slowly. “And do they all have these damned secret rooms? How much OPJ could theoretically be hidden in properties she’s been buying up like trading cards?”

“She sticks to foreclosures, Dan. Houses that sit unoccupied and abandoned for sometimes two to three years at a time.” She’d explained her process, her business model, to him before, all bouncy and excited. To Powell, properties were a game. No more complicated than Monopoly, a way to challenge herself.

Someone had known what Powell was doing—someone in Hughes Heights who was familiar with the neighborhood and who knew what Powell did well enough to know how the process worked. And they’d taken advantage of the fact that most foreclosures and vacant properties in Hughes Heights had been purchased by one person. Gunnar’s woman. “ That’s why Powell was targeted to begin with. If they took her out, her properties would be either split up between her family—or all listed and sold one by one. What do you bet they were intending to see that happened—and that someone they controlled bought those houses instead? Or…just had them on the market long enough for them to be emptied? The day Haldyn was first abducted—they wanted Powell too. Kimball said it—they didn’t want her getting too close. But to what? They didn’t want her buying the house she closed on that day. She closed on three that very week. The Victor Scott house, the one from where she and Heather were taken…and…”

He looked across the road. She’d told him she’d wanted to take a look at that house right there in front of him. First thing in the morning. He’d promised to bring her himself. Because after what had happened that day to her and Heather, she was still afraid. She’d never admit it to him, but she was. Gunnar started walking. It was right there, next to her parents. The house sat on the far corner. Probably four or five acres separated it from Powell’s parents’ front door. “Who else has the assets and the knowledge needed to buy houses in Hughes Heights? We’re talking million-dollar properties. Those don’t sell quickly. Just Powell. One woman. One threat. She threatened their Hughes Heights high-end warehouses, Dan. That’s what it was more than anything. They were afraid of what she’d find in those houses.”

“People in this city don’t often have that kind of money. They were the perfect places, especially if the guards were in on everything. Hell, their damned stashes were guarded—by the Hughes Heights security firm itself,” Daniel said. “The security guards in this place have to be in on it. It would definitely explain a few things. Maybe even others. Grundenman wasn’t working alone. We know that. And the goons are just foot soldiers. We’re not finished yet, Gun. We just aren’t.”

He had never thought it was.

“I’ll get the keys from Powell. We’ll check for ourselves. Hell, no one to stop us, is there?” Gunnar looked at his friend. “Powell owns it. Free and clear. No need to wait for a warrant—that would just get stalled in the system—now.”

“Let’s go check it out.”