"Tanaka's already on the vehicle," Reese says, scanning the pages. "Silver Altima, Delaware plates. Parked at the rental as of six a.m."
"He runs, Tanaka follows. He doesn't run, we do this clean."
"We." Reese looks up. Neutral expression. "Vance said I'm on point."
"You're on point. I'm in the room."
A beat. He doesn't argue. Doesn't need to. We both know the parameters.
Kari watches this exchange from the counter. Her thumb taps her teeth once.
"Be careful," she says. Not to both of us. To me.
"Twenty minutes after we're done," I tell her. "I'll text."
She nods. Doesn't say anything else. Doesn't need to.
Novak's rental is a beige duplex off Route 9, the kind of temporary housing that exists between one life and the next. A modest sedan sits in the short driveway. Silver Nissan Altima. Delaware plates. Exactly where Tanaka said it would be.
Reese parks Saint across the street. Kills the engine. The neighborhood is the kind of quiet that comes from people already at work — empty driveways, drawn blinds, the anonymous hum of a weekday morning.
"Evie confirm the detective?" I ask.
"Warrant's in process. She's coordinating the Virginia complaints handoff — two prior harassment settlements, both with NDAs. They won't hold once criminal charges hit."
"He doesn't know that."
"No." Reese opens his door. "He doesn't."
Novak answers on the third knock. Mid-forties, thinning hair, the soft build of a man who spends his days in conference rooms. He's wearing khakis and a button-down with the sleeves rolled. The face of someone who expected a delivery, not a reckoning.
"Gus Novak?" Reese keeps his voice even. Conversational.
"Who's asking?"
Reese produces an HPG credential. Explains, briefly, that we have questions regarding activities connected to 412 Sycamore Lane.
Novak's expression goes through three stages in about two seconds. Confusion. Recognition. The careful blankness of a man deciding what he knows.
"I'm a project manager for Halcyon Ridge Development," Novak says. "If this is about the acquisition?—"
"May we come in?"
He lets us in. That's his first mistake. People who have nothing to hide don't hesitate, and people who have everything to hide slam the door. Novak is in between — the kind of guilty that still believes it can talk its way out.
The living room is sparse. Beige walls, rental furniture. A laptop on the dining table, papers stacked beside it. Reese takes the armchair opposite Novak. I stand by the door. Watching.
Compromised, Cade.
Watching is all I get to do.
Reese starts slow. The Foxglove Inn acquisition timeline. Novak's assignment a few years ago. The offers Halcyon Ridge extended through various channels. Standard questions, delivered in a tone that could be mistaken for casual.
Novak answers carefully. He frames everything as business — overzealous acquisition strategy, aggressive but legitimate. He uses phrases like accelerated outreach and targeted engagement. Corporate language for what he did to her house.
My jaw ticks. I keep my hands still.
"Let's talk about your phone," Reese says.
