Chapter 3 - Service at the TableAt 1:45 PM PST, the sky over Cabo San Lucas was an unbroken dome of brilliant, searing turquoise.
I was lying on a padded lounger beside a private infinity pool at the Waldorf Astoria Los Cabos Pedregal. The sound of the Pacific ocean crashing against the dramatic rock cliffs below was a soothing roar. A waiter in a crisp white uniform had just placed a chilled mezcal cocktail and a plate of fresh ceviche on the low teak table beside me.
I picked up my phone, uncrossed my legs, and checked the time.
It was 1:47 PM in Seattle.
In thirteen minutes, Marcy’s process server—a bonded court courier named Marcus who specialized in high-conflict legal delivery—was scheduled to ring the front doorbell at the Bellevue estate.
I opened my phone’s camera app, connected to the smart-doorbell feed I had installed at my parents' house three years ago (and which I still paid the monthly cloud-subscription fee for), and tapped the live video link.
The screen loaded in high-definition clarity.
The front porch of the Bellevue house was pristine. A massive, hand-woven autumn wreath hung on the dark oak front door. Potted chrysanthemums in shades of deep amber and burgundy lined the brick steps.
At 1:58 PM, an unmarked silver sedan pulled up to the curb.
A man in a sharp charcoal suit stepped out holding a thick, flat manila envelope with a bright red LEGAL NOTICE — IMMEDIATE DELIVERY sticker plastered across the top.
He walked up the brick steps with practiced, unhurried authority.
He pressed the brass doorbell.
I took a slow sip of my mezcal, the cool lime and smoky agave smooth against my throat, and watched the screen.
The door opened.
My father stood in the doorway. He was wearing his navy blazer, a silk tie, and held a half-empty glass of scotch in his hand. His face was flushed with the cheerful, expansive expression of a host receiving his honored guests.
“Can I help you?” my father’s voice came through the crystal-clear audio feed.
“Richard Vance?” the courier asked calmly.
“Yes?”
“I have a legal service for Richard and Eleanor Vance, executed by Alden & Sterling on behalf of Emma Vance.”
The courier handed the manila envelope toward my father.
My father didn't take it immediately. His brow furrowed in deep, sudden confusion. “Emma? What are you talking about? This is a private family residence, we’re having Thanksgiving dinner—”
“You’ve been served, sir,” the courier said smoothly, dropping the envelope squarely into my father’s hands. “Have a good afternoon.”
The courier turned, walked down the steps, and got back into his sedan.
My father stood on the porch for ten long seconds, staring down at the red sticker on the manila envelope. The expansive, cheerful host expression vanished, replaced by a pale, hollow stillness.
He stepped back inside and closed the heavy oak door.
I switched off the live doorbell feed, leaned back against the plush lounger, and set a timer on my phone for five minutes.
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I knew how my family operated. It would take my father precisely three minutes to tear open the envelope, two minutes to read the bolded cover page from Marcy, and thirty seconds for the panic to breach the sophisticated atmosphere of Lena’s dinner party.
My timer hadn't even reached three minutes when my phone screen exploded with activity.
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