The front door clicked shut, the sound echoing a hollow victory. Harrison Brody’s scent, a mix of expensive cologne and old money, lingered in the air. I pressed my back against the polished wood, my heart still thrumming against my ribs. He had left, but his threat hung like a low cloud over the Topanga Canyon. Destroy Julian’s career. All of it.
But I would not sign.
My phone felt heavy in my hand as I scrolled through my contacts. Marcus Finch, Harrison’s head groundskeeper, was listed under “Estate Services.” I remembered him from a few months ago, fixing a broken sprinkler head near our shared fence line. He had always been polite, quiet, with eyes that saw more than he let on.
I sent a brief, almost casual text. “Marcus, hope you’re well. Quick question about some native plants near the north ridge fence? Thinking of planting more.”
It was a flimsy excuse, but I needed to talk to him. My fingers trembled slightly as I waited.
Less than an hour later, my phone vibrated. “Clara, I’m heading out for supplies. Can meet by the old oak at the bottom of the long driveway in ten?”
I slipped out, Barnaby padding silently beside me, his golden fur a warm comfort against my leg. The late afternoon sun slanted through the sycamores, dappling the asphalt. When I reached the giant oak, Marcus’s beat-up utility truck was already idling, a plume of dust settling around it. He sat behind the wheel, his hands resting lightly on the steering wheel. He didn’t look up at first, just stared straight ahead.
“The plants, Clara,” he said, his voice low, not meeting my gaze. “They’re fine.”
I walked closer, my voice hushed. “Marcus, I need to know about a red pickup truck. The one that was near the fence line yesterday. And the man driving it.”
He didn’t flinch, but a muscle in his jaw twitched. “That’s not something I can talk about, Clara.”
“Harrison was just in my house,” I pushed, the words feeling reckless. “He wants me to sign an NDA. About that truck. About the man. He threatened Julian.”
Marcus finally looked at me, his eyes tired, shadowed. “Harrison has a lot of rules.”
“Does one of those rules involve a man living on his property who looks exactly like Julian’s dead brother?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Barnaby whined softly, nudging my hand.
He let out a slow breath, his gaze drifting to the north ridge, thick with chaparral and dense trees. “There’s a caretaker,” he said, his voice flat. “Lives up there. Quiet type. Keeps to himself. Harrison wants it that way.”
“A caretaker?” I pressed. “For what? There’s nothing up there but brush and the old stable.”
Marcus shook his head slowly. “He tends to the rescued animals. The strays that wander in. Dogs, mostly. A litter of golden retrievers, last I saw. Just like yours.” He gestured towards Barnaby, who was now sniffing at the truck’s tires.
My breath caught. Barnaby’s original litter. Harrison had told me Barnaby was found alone. A quiet caretaker. A red truck. Julian’s brother, Leo, had loved animals. He’d always talked about getting a place in the woods, away from the Hollywood glare, to raise dogs. A sudden chill traced its way down my spine despite the warm air.
“This caretaker,” I managed. “Does he… ever leave the north ridge?”
Marcus turned his full attention back to me, his expression unreadable. “He keeps to the ridge. Fenced off. Very private. Especially when Harrison has guests. Like the big charity gala next week.”
He said it without emphasis, but the words hung in the air. A charity gala. Harrison’s estate would be filled with people, distracting security. The north ridge, usually so guarded, might have a brief window of vulnerability. Marcus glanced at his watch.
“I have to go, Clara. Supplies. You should… be careful with your plants.” He gave a tight, almost imperceptible nod towards the ridge and then put the truck in gear, pulling away slowly, leaving me standing alone with Barnaby, a startling new possibility blooming in my mind.
Leo was not dead. He was living quietly on Harrison Brody’s land.
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