Two minutes passed.
A white golf cart appeared from behind the gatehouse.
Dennis Harlow drove.
Thirty-four.
Thin.
Patchy beard.
Mirrored sunglasses.
He stopped the cart directly behind Fletcher’s Range Rover.
Too close to reverse comfortably.
Then stepped off and folded his arms.
Fletcher checked the rearview mirror.
He said nothing.
Craig returned holding the license loosely.
“So here’s the problem.”
Fletcher waited.
“The address you gave me doesn’t match anything I’m seeing.”
“It’s printed on the license.”
“That doesn’t make you a resident here.”
“It makes it my address.”
Craig shrugged.
“I need to verify with the actual homeowner.”
Fletcher stared at him.
“I am the actual homeowner.”
Craig gave a quiet snort.
“Sir.”
The word stretched.
“I’ve been working this gate every day for three weeks.”
“That is not very long.”
Craig’s jaw tightened.
“I know every resident who comes through here.”
“You clearly don’t.”
Dennis laughed behind the Range Rover.
Fletcher looked at Craig.
“Call Victoria Ashford.”
“I’m not bothering the HOA president on a Saturday because somebody shows up with a story.”
“Somebody?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t.”
Craig stared.
Fletcher took out his phone.
“I have the deed saved.”
He opened the county-record document.
His name.
Property description.
Address.
Recording information.
Purchase date.
County seal.
He held the screen toward Craig.
Craig barely glanced.
“Digital documents can be altered.”
“Then verify it.”
“I’m telling you what we can accept.”
“What can you accept?”
“Original documents.”
Fletcher almost smiled.
“You want me to leave my house, find an original recorded deed on a Saturday, and return Monday to prove that I’m allowed to go home?”
Craig stepped back.
“That’s what I recommend.”
Fletcher sat silently.
Then:
“Your full name.”
“What?”
“Your name and employee identification.”
Craig folded his arms.
“Craig.”
“Last name?”
“That’s all you need.”
“I disagree.”
Craig leaned closer.
“Then we disagree.”
Dennis moved the golf cart another few inches.
Small movement.
Clear message.
Fletcher was boxed.
Then a silver BMW approached.
Craig looked up.
Everything about him changed.
The driver was white.
Pastel polo shirt.
His wife sat beside him with coffee.
Craig smiled.
“Morning, Mr. Whitman.”
“Morning, Craig.”
“Beautiful day.”
“Finally.”
No ID.
No clipboard.
No address confirmation.
Craig walked into the booth.
Pressed the gate control.
The gate opened.
Dennis backed the golf cart aside just enough for the BMW to pass.
The driver waved.
Craig waved back.
The gate closed.
Fletcher watched through the mirror.
Then looked at Craig.
“You didn’t ask for identification.”
“I recognize them.”
“You didn’t verify their address.”