“And nobody did anything?”

“Her husband’s name is on the new clubhouse,” Walt said flatly. “Grant Whitlock. Builds those big condo towers down by the ferry. Gave the club two million dollars. That buys a lot of second chances.”

Mateo nodded slowly. He thought about the orange sticker on the envelope. ADULT SIGNATURE REQUIRED.

“Thanks, Mr. Pruitt.”

“Be careful, son.” Walt tapped the desk. “And park where my cameras can see you. Old habits.”

Mateo laughed, thinking it was a joke.

It wasn’t.

## Slip Forty-Two

The Whitlock boat was called *Second Wind*. It was sixty-eight feet long, gleaming white with dark blue trim, and it sat at the very end of the main pier like it owned the harbor.

Mateo walked the dock with the envelope in one hand and his scanner in the other. The boards were hot enough that he could feel them through his sneakers. A crew member in a white polo was polishing the chrome rail on the back deck.

“Delivery for Vanessa Whitlock,” Mateo said. “Signature required.”

The crew member, a young guy with a sunburned nose, looked at the envelope and visibly winced. “Uh. She’s not on the boat. She’s up in the lot. Getting stuff out of her car. The white Range Rover.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, man.” The crew member hesitated. “Good luck.”

That was the second time in ten minutes someone had warned him. Mateo walked back up the pier with a heavy feeling in his stomach. He told himself he was being silly. It was just an envelope. People got envelopes every day.

He moved his van first. He wanted to be close, so he could leave fast. He nosed it into a space along the fence, directly across the narrow lane from a white Range Rover with its rear hatch open. The two vehicles sat back to back, maybe twelve feet apart. Walt’s words stuck in his head, so he made sure the van was in plain view of the tall pole by the gate where a small black dome camera sat.

He checked his dashboard screen out of habit. Both cameras: recording.

Then he stepped out into the heat.

A woman stood at the back of the Range Rover, digging through a cooler. She was tanned and slim, somewhere in her mid-forties. She wore a bright green tank top and a pleated white tennis skirt. Her blond hair was twisted up in a tortoiseshell claw clip, and a pair of expensive sunglasses sat on top of her head. A thick gold watch hung loose on her wrist.

She did not look up.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Mateo said. “Are you Vanessa Whitlock?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Swiftline Parcel, ma’am. I have a delivery for you. It needs an adult signature.”

She finally turned. Her eyes went to his green shirt, then to his face, then to the envelope. He watched her read the return address. He watched every bit of color drain out of her cheeks, then come rushing back twice as red.

“No,” she said.

“I’m sorry?”

“No. I’m not signing for that. Take it back.”

Mateo nodded politely. “That’s okay, ma’am. You have the right to refuse it. I’ll just mark it as refused, take a quick photo for the record, and I’ll be on my way.”

“You’re not taking a photo of me.”

“Not of you, ma’am. Just of the envelope, at the location. It’s company policy.”

She stepped toward him. Up close, he could smell her perfume and something sharp underneath it. White wine, maybe. It was one-forty in the afternoon.

“Do you know who I am?” she said, her voice low and tight.

Mateo kept his face neutral. He had been asked that question before. He had learned there was no good answer.

“No, ma’am,” he said. “I just deliver the packages.”

Vanessa Whitlock stared at him like he had insulted her mother.

“Let me tell you something,” she said. “My husband sent you, didn’t he? Grant sent you here on a Saturday, in front of everyone, so I’d be embarrassed at my own club.”

“Ma’am, I don’t know your husband. I got this envelope at the depot this morning. I’m just doing my job.”

“Your job.” She laughed, but there was nothing funny in it. “Your job is to carry boxes.”

A couple walking to their car slowed down to watch. An older man on a golf cart near the gate turned his head.

Mateo held up both hands, scanner in one and envelope in the other. “Okay. That’s fine. I’ll mark it refused.”

He tapped the screen. REFUSED BY RECIPIENT. He lifted the scanner to take the required photo of the envelope against the Range Rover’s license plate, the way he’d been trained.

That was when she snatched the envelope out of his hand.

For a split second, he thought she had changed her mind. Then she flung it. The envelope sailed across the lot, spun in the air, and slapped down on the hot asphalt near the fence. It skidded a few feet and stopped in a puddle of melted ice from somebody’s cooler.

“There,” she said. “Delivered. Now get out of here.”

Mateo took a slow breath. Every part of him wanted to just walk away. But the envelope was still technically his responsibility. If he left a refused legal document lying in a parking lot, he could lose his job.

“Ma’am, I have to take it back with me since you refused it,” he said calmly. “I’m just going to grab it.”

He walked over, picked up the dripping envelope, and wiped it on his pants. When he turned around, she was standing right behind him.

“Give me that,” she hissed.

“Ma’am, you refused it. I can’t give it to you now unless you sign.”

“Give it to me!”

She swung her hand at the scanner. It cracked against his wrist. The device flew out of his grip and clattered to the ground. The screen spiderwebbed.