Chapter 8 - The Homecoming
At 11:45 a.m., our black federal SUV rolled quietly down our street, parking beneath the heavy shade of a neighbor's oak tree three houses away from our own.
The front of our house looked normal from the outside. The gray siding, the neatly trimmed lawn, the mailbox flag still down. But through the binoculars Marcus handed me, I could see the subtle disturbance—the shattered lower window of the living room was covered temporarily by a heavy plastic tarp secured by federal agents who had already secured the perimeter.
"He's turning onto the street now," one of the agents in the passenger seat announced, staring at a laptop screen displaying real-time GPS tracking data. "Silver sedan. Matching rental plates."
A minute later, Derek’s car rounded the corner.
He pulled into our driveway with practiced slowness, cutting the engine immediately. As he stepped out of the car, he adjusted the cuffs of his expensive dress shirt and ran a hand through his hair, assuming the exact posture of a grieving, horrified husband returning to a scene of devastation.
He walked up the driveway, his expression carefully calibrated to show shock and disbelief. He approached the front door, raised his hand to knock, and then noticed the broken living room window and the federal tape cordoning off the porch.
For a split second, the mask slipped.
His eyes darted around the quiet street, searching for smoke, for police cruisers, for ambulances. Finding none, confusion flickered across his face.
He pulled out his phone, likely trying to call the man he had hired—the man who was currently sitting in a federal holding cell twenty miles away.
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That was when Marcus shifted the SUV into gear, pulled out from under the oak tree, and blocked Derek's rental car in the driveway.
Four federal agents poured out of our vehicle and the unmarked car behind us, surrounding Derek before he could take a single step backward.
