His property was not part of Pine Ridge.
It never had been.
The nearest house belonging to that development was almost two miles away, beyond forest and rolling mountain land. Ethan's three hundred and forty acres had belonged to his family for four generations. The deed was older than Pine Ridge. The road was older than Pine Ridge.
And yet two strangers were inside his gate at two o'clock in the morning, measuring his land as if they owned it.
Ethan opened the gun cabinet and removed his twelve-gauge shotgun.
He checked it.
Loaded.
For a moment, he stood perfectly still.
Thirty years in law enforcement had taught him that fear could make intelligent people stupid. It could turn a problem into a tragedy in less than a second.
A younger Ethan might have walked outside.
An angry Ethan might have shouted.
A frightened Ethan might have raised the shotgun and demanded answers.
But Ethan had spent too many years watching people destroy their own cases by reacting before they understood what was happening.
So he set the shotgun beside the wall, out of sight of the windows.
Then he started recording.
On the screen, one of the men photographed the cabin. The barn. The woodshed. The gate.