Boone exhaled shakily. "If you need someone to speak on your behalf, I can."
"Not yet," he replied. "Wait."
Boone blinked. "Wait for what?"
"For the truth to land where it needs to."
Boone didn't fully understand, but he nodded and stepped back, relieved to have done something, even if it was small.
Ethan turned and unlocked the clubhouse maintenance door with steady hands. Inside, the building hummed faintly. The security room remained sealed, federal lock engaged after last night's discovery. He moved past it, checking switches and control panels, ensuring nothing would raise suspicion. The day needed to appear normal, even as pressure built inch by inch.
He circled through the lobby, clipboard in hand, marking notations, touching up a scuffed baseboard with a quick swipe of paint. Residents entering the gym or office glanced at him, perhaps expecting him to flinch or avoid eye contact. He didn't. He nodded politely—always calm, always composed.
Around mid-morning, the HOA board gathered for an impromptu meeting near the reception counter. He didn't approach; instead, he worked from a distance, listening without looking like he was listening.
"No, she reassured me everything was handled," one board member insisted.
"Handled?" whispered another. "Did you see her last night? She practically bolted out of the hall."
"She's under a lot of pressure."
"That doesn't excuse—"
He tuned out the rest. This wasn't the time to react; it was simply information, confirmation of the cracks forming.
As he moved toward the side door, a familiar voice stopped him. "So, you're everywhere this morning."