JAMES POV
I do not like making excuses for my presence.
I pull my black car into the gravel driveway of the Hampton Shores beach house at ten in the morning, the ocean wind rattling the thin branches of the pine trees. I tell myself I am here to review the secondary perimeter sensors along the eastern fence line. It is a reasonable task. Security protocol demands regular audits, especially with a target as high-profile as my private estate.
It is an excuse, and I know it. The truth is, I left this house yesterday through the side garage door without saying a word to her.
I cut the engine, grab my leather briefcase from the passenger seat, and step out into the cold air. The front door is unlocked. That is the first thing I notice. The heavy deadbolt is disengaged, though the secondary
