Forty-seven pages, with a cover letter written by Sierra.
The detective went through it slowly, asking questions here and there. When she finished, she looked up at me.
“Mr. Parker,” she said, “this is one of the cleanest evidence packages I’ve ever received.”
“When do you think he’ll make his move?” she asked.
“I’d give him about two weeks.”
She nodded. “We’ll be ready.”
“So will I.”
I did not know exactly how right I was.
It took eleven days.
It was a Tuesday morning, overcast in the way Miami gets in October before a front comes through. I was drinking coffee on my back porch, looking at the yard Britney and I had planted together. Bird of paradise. Sea grape. The old mango tree that gave us more fruit every summer than we could ever eat.
I was thinking about my wife, the way I often did on quiet mornings, when I heard a car pull into the driveway.
Then another.
I did not move right away.
I set my coffee down slowly.
I already knew.
The knock came hard.
Three sharp raps.