CHAPTER 1: THE EMERALD BREACH
The plastic handle bit into my palm, heavy with two gallons of industrial concentrate. Through the glass of the patio door, the water looked deceptive—flat, turquoise, and completely still except for the steady, rhythmic ripples trailing behind Brenda’s kicking feet.
She was floating on her back in the deep end, arms outstretched, eyes closed beneath the high noon sun. Her dark charcoal one-piece cut cleanly through the surface of a pool she did not own, inside a yard she had broken into, bordered by a six-foot cedar fence she had decided did not apply to her.
I didn’t knock on the glass. I didn’t shout across the grass. Politeness had died three warnings ago.
I slid the heavy glass door open on its aluminum track. The sharp metallic rattle barely registered against the gentle lap of the water. My running shoes hit the concrete coping with hard, deliberate friction. Three strides brought me to the edge, directly above her drifting head.
I tilted the mouth of the container down and twisted the threaded cap off with my thumb.
“You wanted my pool,” I said, my voice dropping like lead into the midday heat. “Now deal with this.”
I inverted the jug.
A thick, viscous torrent of fluorescent green liquid struck the blue water with a heavy, hollow slap. It didn’t disperse quietly. It exploded outward in a violent, billowing cloud, blooming across the surface like smoke in a vacuum.
Brenda’s eyes tore open.
A choked gasp caught in her throat as the neon plume surged against her ribs, staining the clear water around her torso in a dense, blinding emerald. Her legs kicked frantically, fighting the sudden loss of visibility. The calm, languid rhythm shattered into an uncoordinated thrash. Water churned against the tiled perimeter, throwing cold spray against the denim of my jeans.
“What did you just put in here?” she screamed, scrambling backward toward the shallow end, her palms slapping the concrete wall for leverage. “What is that? Are you crazy? What did you put on me?”
I stayed anchored where I stood, my feet squared to the edge, the empty jug hanging dead in my right hand. The midday sun beat down on the back of my neck, sharp and hot, but the air between us was ice.
“Get to the steps, Brenda.”
“You poisoned the water!” Her voice cracked, pitching upward into that shrill, practiced register she used at homeowners’ association meetings when a trash bin stayed out twenty minutes past dawn. She wiped frantically at her face with the back of a dripping, green-tinted wrist. “This is assault! I’m calling the police! I swear to God, you’re going to jail for this!”
“The deputy is already turning onto the street,” I said quietly.
She reached the shallow steps, her chest heaving, the charcoal fabric of her suit dripping water that hit the bleached patio stones in dark, unmistakable rings of neon green. Her hands shook as she reached for the deck chair where she had draped her towel and canvas tote.
She lunged to snatch the bag, but her wet fingers slipped across the zipper. The tote tumbled off the lounger, spilling its contents across the hot concrete.
I looked down at the pile. There was no sunscreen. No paperback novel.
Scattered across my patio stones were four sets of duplicate gate keys, a laminated clipboard bearing a printed schedule of hourly rates, and a master brass key stamped with the serial number of my own back deadbolt.
