Page 37 of The Exit Strategy

It’s the separate tab with LLC structure and the screenshots of forged signatures next to my own that makes me pause. She doesn’t know I didn’t sign these, but somehow, she still believes in my innocence.

Juniper Mercer is finding the evidence I hadn’t been able to.

And she’s creating a timeline even I can follow.

She put this file together in the two hours between our argument and now. While angry. Probably hurt. Most likely hungry. She has no idea that I’ve been sitting on the little information I had because, without proof that Devin is the thief, I’ll be the one to take the fall.

And I’m too chicken shit to say that to her face. To see her reaction. To witness the moment she might lose all faith in me.

I close the laptop and rest my forehead against the top of it while my hands grip the granite so hard my knuckles ache.

Junie’s right about everything.

It’s how I know the past and present are going to collide. Not today. But soon.

And it’s not something she’ll ever understand. Not really. Even if she does, the look of betrayal in her eyes will be so much worse than it was today.

The urge to fix shit rises in me until I can no longer sit still. I need to get my hands on something that makes sense because the expression on Junie’s face when I shut her down isn’t something I can fix and it’s not something I can file away and it’s not something I can run from forever.

So I grab my tool belt and go.

The Haven hasa help request list that lives on a clipboard in the clubhouse kitchen. It’s different from the list for the actual maintenance we have staff for. This one is so I can get shit done around here without the need for long conversations about cost or time or repayment. It’s supposed to be organized by priority. Instead, it’s organized by whoever’s annoyed me the least.

Today’s list has Frank’s gutters. Again. The man has three oak trees within spitting distance of his roofline, and he refuses to let me cut a single branch because, and I quote, they were here first and he doesn’t believe in gutter guards.

There’s a porch light out at Marley’s place. She’s filed four written complaints in two weeks. The first three were formal warnings. The fourth included a diagram.

A loose railing on the clubhouse deck that Stanley’s been monitoring with his GoPro because he thinks someone is tampering with it so they can fake an injury which would increase everyone’s insurance if the invisible culprit filed a lawsuit.

I start with Frank’s gutters because they require a ladder and enough physical effort to shut my brain up.

It almost works. For twenty minutes, the only thing in my head is leaf rot and downspout angles while my hands do what they’re good at. They grip and pull and clear and measure and for a little bit, I’m not the guy who keeps finding new ways to break Junie’s spirit.

Then Frank comes outside with two glasses of bourbon and sits in his lawn chair to supervise.

I thought I was safe, since they rarely come outside after dinner except on S&S nights. This is why I typically work onanything I can after 10 p.m. Junie didn’t give me a choice tonight.

“Dollie says your girl didn’t eat her lunch.”

I nearly lose my grip on my ladder. “She’s not my girl, Frank.”

“Right.” He sips his bourbon. I only know because he makes a slurping noise just to be a pain in the ass. “Dollie also says you cut her grilled cheese diagonally with a pickle you had to work for.”

How the hell does Dollie know how I cut Junie’s sandwich? Then again, how does anyone know anything around here? I live in a surveillance bubble run by retirees with nothing better to do than monitor my emotional collapse as if it’s an episode for S&S to rate.

“Frank,” I bark. “The gutters.”

“I’m just saying.” He lifts his hands in surrender. “When Dollie’s mad at me, she won’t eat what I cook either. It’s a sign.”

“It’s a sandwich.”

Frank chuckles from somewhere deep in his chest. “It’s never just a sandwich, son.”

I climb down the ladder, chug Frank’s offered ounce of bourbon, and then move on to Marley’s before Frank can impart any more relational wisdom I never asked for.

Stanley intercepts me on the path between Marley’s house and unit 12 that hasn’t sold yet. He’s in his golf cart that’s now fitted with aftermarket headlights bright enough to land an aircraft, and one of them is aimed directly at my face.

“Jesus, Stanley. Turn down your headlights. It’s eight o’clock at night. If you flash those things into Marley’s place, I’ll never hear the end of it.”