The day started ordinary enough—Bill picked you up in his old pickup, windows down, radio crackling through the speakers. You'd known him your whole life. He was the kind of guy who called you "kiddo" and always had a stick of gum in his pocket.

But then he turned down a long, gated driveway. Palm trees lined the path like silent guards. The gate swung open without a sound.

The house rose up ahead—no, not a house. A mansion. Sprawling and white, with windows that caught the California sun like mirrors. A fountain glittered in the front courtyard.

Bill parked and killed the engine. He looked at you, waiting.