Sawyer had intended to work through lunch catching up on work. She even poured a fresh cup of early-afternoon coffee, and told Riggins, “Today, we’re giving it 110%.”
Riggins blinked. He knew there was no such thing. He ain’t no dummy. She took a sip, opened her laptop — and didn’t type a thing. That damned garden was still in her head.
The Garden Doesn’t Lie
But five minutes into her lunch hour, she found herself staring off at the Ferguson house again at the mystery garden. The garden looked even messier than it did the day before – like someone had started digging and then stopped in a hurry.
Russo stood alert by the deck railing, ears perked like he sensed it, too.
And she hadn’t imagined it. The antique box? It had definitely moved.
Deeper? Shifted? Someone else found it?
She tapped the pen against her Kindle Scribe, then wrote in the margin: We need to go back tonight.
A Late-Night Stakeout
By 8 p.m., the neighborhood had settled into its evening quiet – sprinklers ticking, TVs flickering behind drawn plantation shutters, the occasional golf cart humming home from the clubhouse.
Sawyer met Cheryl by the side fence. Gloves, headlamps, and a single gardening trowel between them.
Cheryl looked down at the trowel. “One? You brought one tool for a mystery dig?
Sawyer shook her head and whispered, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“I can’t believe we didn’t do it sooner,” Cheryl whispered back.
Russo and Riggins flanked them like four-legged bodyguards as they slipped into the Ferguson yard. The air was thick – the kind of night where you could almost hear the humidity.
The garden was even worse up close. Fresh dirt clumped loosely on top, like it had been turned but not packed down again.
Cheryl stepped carefully. “You think someone else found it? Dug it up already?”
Sawyer crouched low and brushed her gloved fingers across the dirt. “I think someone tried to. But I don’t think they got far.”
Russo let out a quiet whine. Riggins stayed absolutely still.
A rustle behind the house froze them both.
Sawyer held up a hand. They waited and listened.
Nothing. No footsteps. No voice. Just… stillness.
Then a single porch light flicked on at Blake’s house across the street.
“Abort,” Cheryl said immediately. “ABORT MISSION.”
They scrambled out faster than two women over 50 ought to be able to move, barely making it back to the sidewalk before Riggins let out a triumphant bark – loud enough to wake up half of Hawthorne Grove.
Cheryl shushed him. “Whose side are you on?”
Retreat and Regroup
Back at Sawyer’s deck, they regrouped.
“We need a better plan,” Sawyer said, peeling off her gloves.
Cheryl nodded. “And a cover story. And snacks. You know, if we’re going to do this again.”
Sawyer looked at the dogs. “We’ll do it again,” she said. “Maybe we leave Riggins at home next time.”
Russo’s tail thumped.
But as she stepped inside, something gnawed at her. The dirt hadn’t just been disturbed – it had been left that way. Like someone wanted them to see it. Or like someone was waiting to see what they’d do next.
She shut the door behind her, locked it, and wrote one more line on her Scribe:
Tomorrow: Bring the shovel.
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