He responded with a single word: Coming.
He touched his daughter's shoulder. "I have to step out for a little while. Lock the door behind me. Don't open it for anyone except me or Rowan."
She nodded. "Okay."
He waited until the lock clicked before heading down the hallway.
The walk toward the security building felt heavier than usual—not from fear, but from the quiet certainty that they were nearing the fulcrum of everything: where the weight shifted, where the hinge turned, where exposure stopped being preparation and became reality.
When he approached the parking lot near the clubhouse, he saw Rowan standing beside the sheriff's patrol SUV. Sheriff Donovan—broad-shouldered, serious, not the type to let an HOA intimidate him—spoke with two marshals while glancing intermittently at his clipboard.
Rowan looked up as he approached. "We've got enough," he said. "The footage, the audio, the witness patterns, and your notes filled every gap."
Ethan nodded. "What's the next step?"
Rowan motioned toward the sheriff. "He'll bring her in for questioning. I'll handle the digital evidence. You should be ready for her reaction."
"I'm ready."
"She's going to push back hard. People like her collapse loud."
"I know," Ethan said.
Rowan studied him briefly. "You're steady."
"Always."