The first thing the Single Dad noticed was that the fence had been failing long before the truck touched it.
That mattered.
The delivery company had blamed the homeowner.
The homeowner had blamed the delivery company.
Two contractors had already blamed the angle of impact.
Nobody had blamed the fence itself.
The Single Dad crouched beside the second post and pushed one thumb against the wood just above the concrete footing.
The post moved.
Not much.
Maybe three millimeters.
Enough.
He scraped the surface with the edge of a screwdriver.
The outside looked dry.
The inside came away dark and soft.
Rot.
Old.
Months old, maybe years.
He sat back on his heels.
Thirty feet of fencing ran along the east side of one of the most expensive houses in Whitfield Hollow.
Stone exterior.
Tall windows.
Landscaped backyard.
Outdoor kitchen.
Heated pool.
Everything designed to look permanent.
The fence was the cheapest-looking thing on the property.
And even that had been expensive.
The Single Dad checked another post.
Then another.
Same story.
He pulled a small notebook from his tool belt.
Three posts failing.
Fourth questionable.
Lower rail split.
Mesh pulling tension from a leaning corner.
Existing footing too shallow.
Someone had attempted a temporary repair with screws too short to matter.
He wrote everything down.
Then heard heels crossing stone.
He looked up.
The Female CEO was walking toward him.
She looked like she had stepped out of a magazine and accidentally entered a construction site.
Blonde hair pinned into a loose but carefully arranged updo.
Polished makeup.
Gold bracelets.
A sculpted cream sleeveless top with asymmetric cutouts.
Champagne-colored wide-leg satin trousers.
High heels that had no business anywhere near soft ground.
A small glossy black handbag hung from one arm.
She stopped about ten feet away.
Her gaze moved from him to the fence.
Then to the three boards already removed.
Her expression changed.
“What are you doing?”
The Single Dad stood.
“Checking the structure.”
“I hired you to repair the damaged section.”
“That’s what I’m doing.”
“You’ve removed parts the truck never touched.”
“Yes.”
The CEO folded her arms.
“Why?”
He pointed toward the nearest post.
“It was already failing.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“The inspection said otherwise.”
“Which inspection?”
“The contractor my property manager uses.”
The Single Dad nodded.
“He missed it.”
Her expression cooled.
“That contractor has worked on houses in this neighborhood for fifteen years.”
“Then he’s been missing things for a long time.”
Silence.
That had come out sharper than he intended.
The CEO stepped closer.
“You’re very confident for someone who’s been on my property less than forty minutes.”
The Single Dad looked at the post.
“Wood doesn’t care how long I’ve been here.”
Her jaw tightened.
He pressed one hand against it.
The post shifted visibly.
The CEO stared.
The Single Dad took out a pry tool and cut into the lower section.
Dark rotten wood opened underneath.