Whitfield Hollow lay on the wealthy, wooded outskirts of Charlotte, where houses were far enough apart for people to forget that neighbors existed. The roads curved between old trees and new stone walls, and the mailboxes were built from materials Daniel normally encountered only when a client had money to waste. He did not resent the houses. He had spent too much of his life repairing things to believe a building could explain the person inside it.
Catherine's property stood beyond a long drive lined with ornamental pear trees. The house was modern without being cold, all pale stone, dark glass, and carefully proportioned cedar. A broad kitchen window overlooked the eastern fence, and beyond it Daniel could see a strip of lower ground following the easement toward the road. The gate stood open as promised. No assistant greeted him, and no one appeared when he parked near the damaged boundary and stepped out with a notebook.
The fence was worse than he expected. Nearly thirty feet of wire mesh had folded inward, three posts leaned at uneven angles, and the concrete beneath two had fractured in a way that suggested the soil had been moving long before the delivery truck arrived. A set of plastic zip ties held one section upright with more optimism than structural purpose. Daniel knelt, scraped loose dirt from the first footing, and found dark softness at the base of the wood. The post had been rotting slowly for years.
He examined the second and third posts, looking for changes in color, smell, and resistance. He checked how the road's runoff moved across the property and where the drainage collected after storms. The driver had clearly struck the fence, but simply replacing the damaged mesh would leave the line vulnerable the next time a heavy vehicle crossed the easement. Daniel made careful measurements, photographed the damage, and marked the boundary points he would need verified before placing the new footings.
"You're not the man I called."
The words came from behind him at exactly eight o'clock. Daniel finished recording a measurement before standing, because work was easiest to do correctly when you did not let interruptions alter the order. Catherine stood on the edge of the gravel in a charcoal blazer, dark trousers, and shoes that had no business being anywhere near wet concrete. Her phone was in one hand, and her expression suggested someone had taken the last space on a crowded calendar and filled it with another inconvenience.
"I spoke to Marcus," Daniel said. "He was booked and asked me to handle it. We work together when the schedule gets tight."
"I asked for him specifically."
"I understand. If you prefer to wait, I won't charge you for this visit."
That seemed to surprise her, though she recovered quickly. "Can you do the work?"
"Yes. But the delivery truck isn't the whole problem." Daniel showed her one of the photographs, pointing to the discoloration near the base. "These two posts had rot before the impact. Whoever put on the zip ties tried to make the fence look stable without checking whether it still was. If I replace only the part the truck hit, you'll pay me once and someone else again after the first hard winter."