As she drinks, Moira checks the news app on her phone. She flicks past the national news to the local section, then frowns. That’s weird. None of the top five local headlines are about The Homestead. There’s a story about a local baseball player and his new home, a short report on a carjacking in Orlando, a story about a baby abandoned on the beach out near Tampa and a couple of articles on home improvements and crafting trends – nothing about the murder. Moira keeps scrolling, scanning more of the local news articles. She makes it to the end of the news section without finding any mention of The Homestead or Ocean Mist.
That’s definitely weird. The murder of a young woman is far more newsworthy than the latest crocheting technique, surely? She makes a mental note to bring it up later with the others, and see what they think.
Moira downs the last of her coffee then looks at her watch. It’s just gone eight, and she’s ready to go. She sees no point in waiting. Promising the dogs a walk when she gets back, Moira slips out of the house, double-locks the door behind her and heads towards the Ocean Mist gatehouse.
The air is crisp, the humidity low, and there’s steam coming off the grass as the heat from the rising sun burns away the dew. The birds are twittering in the trees. The early-morning air feels just like it did yesterday, but things are different now. There’s no new tabula rasa. This isn’t Groundhog day. Her blank slate from yesterday is still splattered with blood and sprinkled with water-sodden dollars. It’ll stay that way until finding the killer allows her to wipe it clean.
Moira shakes her head, remembering her slip-up last night, which meant she had to tell the others she’d been in the police. It was stupid and dangerous. She needs to keep her secrets more carefully and try harder to not let Philip’s bossy pompousness get to her. Last night, no matter how casual he was about it, she could tell Rick had sensed she was hiding more. Maybe even Lizzie suspected something – she’d certainly been pretty pissed off that Moira hadn’t been more forthcoming about her job. She’s going to have a job getting Lizzie to trust her again. Moira curses, then tries to push last night from her mind. She doesn’t have time to dwell on it right now. Up ahead is the gatehouse.
Each of The Homestead’s districts have an entrance off the main highway with a gatehouse that’s manned 24-7 by a uniformed security team. The set-up is standard; three lanes – one as an exit, two for entry – with large palm trees flanking the road on either side. In front of the gatehouse is a large sign: ‘WELCOME TO OCEAN MIST AT THE HOMESTEAD – THE PLACE TO MAKE AND SHARE HAPPY MEMORIES.’ Moira grimaces at the sign. It’s far too corny.
The gatehouse itself is a squat white stucco one-storey at the side of the road next to the visitors’ entry lane. If you live in Ocean Mist you take the middle lane marked for residents and get an electronic pass to fix on your dashboard to activate the automatic barrier, so there’s no need to join a queue. Visitors have to use the right-hand lane and stop next to the security hut to show ID and say who they’re visiting. The guard then raises the barrier to let them through.
Since she moved here the biggest bugbear Moira’s heard about from other residents is the security on the gates – how they don’t always ask people for their names or ID, and how people have sometimes been seen to drive through the barrierless exit lane to enter and security do nothing about it. She’s never experienced or seen it herself, though. When she visited she was asked for her ID and the uniformed security guy in the gatehouse had made a big show about checking it over. So perhaps it depends which staff are on duty when you arrive.
Right now, everything is quiet. Half the houses are still in darkness, and she hasn’t seen any cars being driven for the whole walk over here. She doubts the gatehouse is doing a big trade.
Crossing the street, she approaches the building. The lights are on, but as she looks through the window in the side door she doesn’t see a guard. Usually they’re looking out for cars approaching, so she wonders where they’ve gone. Gently, she raps on the glass with her knuckles. Waits a few moments, but no one appears.
She knocks again, a little louder this time, and waits. Still nothing. She really wants to get a look at the logs, and she’s here now. Surely the guard must be inside? If they’re not answering, there’s only one way to find out. She presses the door handle down and pushes. Nothing happens. The door is stuck firm. Moira pushes again, harder this time. The door doesn’t budge – it must be locked.