I mounted the thermal camera on a tripod in the back seat and rolled down the window an inch.

The cold Denver wind bit at my cheeks.

I adjusted the focus ring on the lens.

The screen flickered, shifting from dark gray to bright shades of orange and yellow.

The heat signatures of the house came into view.

I could see the boilers humming in the basement.

In the kitchen on the main floor, two bright orange figures were moving.

One was tall and broad-shouldered.

Grant.

He was pouring a drink from a decanter, his movements slow and deliberate.

The other figure was slender, pacing back and forth near the French doors.

Vanessa.

I adjusted the parabolic microphone, aiming the dish directly at the glass of the kitchen window.

The static in my earpiece hissed, then settled into a low, filtered hum.

The window glass acted as a diaphragm, vibrating with the sound waves of their voices inside.

“…told you she would try to come tonight,” Vanessa’s voice came through, thin but clear.

“It doesn’t matter,” Grant replied. “The police are sitting at the gate. If she touches the driveway, she goes to county jail.”