The Gables Annual Block Party was a masterclass in performative happiness.
The cul-de-sac had been transformed. The street was blocked off with saw, horses draped in red, white, and blue bunting. The air smelled of hickory smoke from three thousand dollars’ worth of Big Green Egg grills and the cloying sweetness of the catered sangria. String lights crisscrossed the sky above the asphalt, creating a false ceiling of stars that outshone the real ones.
Maya Lin-Baker stood at the edge of her driveway, smoothing the skirt of her navy dress. Under the silk, taped to her sternum, was a digital recorder no bigger than a stick of gum. It was warm against her skin, a second heartbeat thumping in time with her own.
“You don’t have to do this,” Dan said, coming up behind her. He held a plate of deviled eggs, looking miserable. Since the night she had confronted him about his lies, they moved around each other like satellites in decaying orbit—connected by gravity, but terrified of collision.
“I do,” Maya said, not looking at him. She scanned the crowd. “The podcast dropped the financials. The Ledger. It showed the money trail leading from the HOA reserve fund to shell companies owned by the original board members. Now I need to see who flinches.”
“Maya, these are our neighbors,” Dan hissed. “They’re eating potato salad.”
“They’re laundering blood money, Dan. And one of them is killing people to keep it quiet.”
She stepped off the curb and into the party.
The noise hit her first—a wall of laughter and clinking glass that felt aggressive in its cheer. To her left, the bounce house was a chaotic lung, inhaling and exhaling shrieking children. To her right, the buffet tables groaned under the weight of a hundred casseroles.
She spotted the targets immediately.
They weren’t wearing blue suits tonight. They were wearing polo shirts and khaki shorts, holding craft beers in coozies. But the hierarchy was unmistakable.
Elias Thorne stood near the cooler, holding court. Next to him was Rick Vance, looking red-faced and sweaty. And circling them were two other men Maya recognized from the archived photos—the sons of the 1994 board.
The Architects. Or rather, the Heirs.
Maya signaled to Chloe across the crowd. Chloe was standing by the dessert table, looking pale but resolute. She gave a microscopic nod. The Pact was in effect. Chloe would watch the perimeter; Maya would go for the throat.
Maya navigated through the crowd, dodging Mrs. Gable and her resurrected golden retriever. She plastered a smile on her face—the same smile she used to wear when interviewing city councilmen she knew were taking bribes.
“Elias!” she called out, breezing into the circle of men. “Lovely turnout. The bunting is a nice touch. Very… patriotic.”
Elias stiffened. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “Maya. I wasn’t sure you’d come. Given the… recent disturbances.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it,” Maya said. She turned to Rick. “Rick, how are you? I saw Chloe’s new kitchen renovation on Instagram. It must have cost a fortune.”
It was a jab. A test.
Rick’s jaw tightened. The veins in his thick neck pulsed. “Chloe has expensive taste. We manage.”
“Managing is hard these days,” Maya said, stepping closer. She lowered her voice, forcing the men to lean in. “Especially with the market the way it is. And the… unexpected audits.”
The circle went still. The ambient noise of the party seemed to drop away, leaving them in a bubble of tension.
“What audits?” Elias asked. His voice was thin, reedy.
“The podcast,” Maya said casually, sipping her water. “Did you hear the latest episode? The Ledger? The narrator had some very specific numbers regarding the HOA reserve fund from 1994 to 2000. Something about a ‘structural maintenance’ account that paid out to a company in the Caymans?”
Rick crushed his beer can. Aluminum screamed.
“It’s fiction,” Rick spat. “It’s a story told by a lunatic.”
“Is it?” Maya asked, locking eyes with him. “Because the narrator sounded like he had the bank statements, Rick. He mentioned your father’s signature. Richard Vance Sr. Authorized a fifty-thousand-dollar withdrawal the week after Juniper Black died.”
Rick took a step toward her. He was a big man, heavy with muscle and aggression. “You watch your mouth, Maya. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think I do,” Maya said, her heart hammering against the recorder. “I think your father paid for a cleanup. And I think the money ran out. That’s why the houses are crumbling, isn’t it, Elias? The reserve fund is empty. You’ve been robbing Peter to pay Paul for thirty years.”
Elias looked around, his eyes darting to the neighbors eating ribs ten feet away. “Lower your voice.”
“Why?” Maya challenged. “Are you afraid the Podcaster is listening? Or are you afraid he’s right?”
Elias leaned in. He smelled of nervous sweat and spearmint gum.
“You think you’re brave,” Elias whispered. “You think you’re a journalist uncovering the truth. You’re not. You’re a child playing with a downed power line. You have no idea what kind of voltage runs through this street.”
“Then tell me,” Maya said. “Tell me who the Podcaster is. Tell me why you were in the library.”
“I was in the library because it’s the only place I can think!” Elias snapped. “Because everywhere else, I’m watching my back. We all are.”
He gestured to the other men. They weren’t looking at Maya with anger anymore. They were looking at her with fear.
“We didn’t start this,” Elias hissed. “Our fathers did. We just inherited the bill. And now someone is calling in the debt.”
“Who?” Maya demanded. “Who is the collector?”
“We don’t know!” Rick interjected, his voice rising. “If we knew, do you think we’d be standing here eating coleslaw? We’d be dealing with it.”
“Dealing with it how?” Maya asked. “Like your father dealt with Juniper?”
Rick’s face went purple. He lunged, but Elias caught his arm.
“Don’t,” Elias warned him. “Not here.”
“She’s wearing a wire,” Rick accused, staring at Maya’s chest. “Look at her. She’s stiff as a board.”
Maya forced herself to relax her shoulders. “I’m wearing Spanx, Rick. It’s a party.”
“Get out of here, Maya,” Elias said. His voice was cold again, the bureaucrat returning to the surface. “Go eat a burger. Go play with your kid. While you still can.”
The threat hung in the air, heavy and wet like the humidity.
Maya didn’t move. She held her ground for three seconds—long enough to show them she wasn’t running. Then she turned and walked away.
She made it to the edge of the buffet table before she had to lean against it to stop her legs from shaking.
They were terrified.
It wasn’t them. They were the “Heirs,” yes. They were complicit in the financial cover-up. But they didn’t know who the Podcaster was. They were just as much targets as the Club.
The enemy of my enemy, Maya thought. Could we use them?
“Maya.”
She jumped. Sarah Vance appeared at her elbow, holding a plate of untouched fruit.
“Did you get it?” Sarah whispered.
“I got fear,” Maya murmured. “They’re scared, Sarah. Rick looks like he’s about to have a stroke.”
“Good,” Sarah said, her eyes hard. “Let him sweat.”
A loud BOOM shook the ground.
Maya gasped, grabbing Sarah’s arm.
“Fireworks,” Sarah said, pointing to the sky. “It’s 9:00 PM. The finale.”
Red and gold sparks exploded over the cul-de-sac, illuminating the upturned faces of the neighbors. The noise was deafening. Crack. Boom. Whistle.
It sounded like gunshots.
The crowd pressed in, everyone moving toward the center of the street to get a better view. Maya was jostled. Shoulders bumped against hers. The smell of sweat and smoke intensified.
She felt trapped. The cul-de-sac was a bowl, and the lid had been nailed shut.
“I need air,” Maya said. “I need to get out of the crowd.”
She turned to push her way back toward her driveway.
A body slammed into her.
It wasn’t a casual bump. It was forceful. Deliberate. A hard shoulder check that nearly knocked the wind out of her.
“Watch it!” Maya snapped, spinning around.
She saw a back. A man in a dark hoodie, moving away through the throng. He didn’t look back. He melted into the shadows between the houses, moving toward the easement.
Maya rubbed her side. The impact had stung.
Then she felt it.
A weight in her pocket. The patch pocket of her dress, which had been empty a moment ago.
Her blood ran cold. The fireworks exploded overhead, a strobe light of terror.
She reached into her pocket. Her fingers brushed against heavy cardstock.
She pulled it out.
It was a cream-colored note. The same stationery Sarah had received. The same typewriter font.
Maya unfolded it, her hands shaking so violently she almost dropped it into the punch bowl.
STOP DIGGING, MAYA. OR YOU DIE.
She looked up, scanning the crowd. The neighbors were cheering at a particularly bright explosion. Their mouths were open, laughing, screaming with delight. They looked like gargoyles in the flashing light.
He was here.
He wasn’t in the woods. He wasn’t behind a screen. He was at the party. He had touched her. He had been close enough to slide a hand into her pocket.
Maya spun in a circle. Was it Rick? Elias? The Chief? Or someone she had never suspected?
She saw Dan across the street, holding Leo on his shoulders. Leo was pointing at the sky, mesmerized.
And behind them, near the edge of the wetlands, a figure stood watching. Not watching the fireworks. Watching her.
A man in a blue windbreaker.
Maya blinked, and a firework flashed white. When her vision cleared, the spot was empty.
She clutched the note to her chest, the paper crumping against the hidden recorder. The party raged on around her, a celebration of a community that was actively trying to kill her.
She wasn’t the hunter anymore. She was the prey in the center of the circle.