My father had been repairing swimming pools for twenty-nine years.

At sixty-one, he had reached the point where experience looked almost effortless.

He could look at cloudy water and usually tell what had gone wrong before running a single test.

He could listen to a struggling pump and identify whether the problem had started days, months, or years earlier.

Most importantly, he was careful.

Painfully careful.

He documented everything.

My name is Julie Marsh. I’m twenty-eight, and I work as an executive assistant for Richard Emory at Marsh Capital Management.

Despite the matching surname, the company has nothing to do with my family.

Richard is wealthy, intelligent, demanding, and accustomed to getting the outcome he wants.

I had worked for him for three years and knew exactly how efficient he expected everyone around him to be.

So when he mentioned that the pool behind his Lakeview Drive home needed major repairs, I told him my father was one of the best pool technicians I knew.

Richard asked for his number.

Dad inspected the property a few days later.

The pool was large—a forty-foot gunite installation wit