Previously on DOOL:
Sawyer woke up already tired. Her throat was scratchy, her head felt too full, and her sinuses were staging a protest she hadn’t signed off on. She’d told herself she’d rest – just log in to work, knock out the bare minimum, and park it on the couch with herbal tea and a fleece blanket. But by 9:17 a.m., she was already at the back window, staring at the Ferguson garden.
The garden looked different again today. That was unsettling. Why would it keep changing? Somebody was visiting that garden when no one was looking. The hydrangeas had somehow righted themselves. The slumped soil had been patted back into place. No sign of the haphazard prints she’d noticed the other day. It was too neat, though. Too clean. Someone had definitely been out there again. Someone who didn’t want to leave a trail.
Riggins watched her with his usual judgmental eyes from the couch. Russo whined by the back door, restless and twitchy, while Rafa stayed curled up on her heating pad like the prince he believed himself to be. The dogs knew something was off. They always did. Sawyer didn’t believe in a lot of things anymore – happily ever afters, low-sodium chips tasting good, or HOA presidents who acted with restraint – but she did believe in the instincts of her dogs.
When Rest Isn’t Resting
She stood there for another long minute, then forced herself to step away. She needed to get some actual work done. But even as she opened her laptop and attempted to focus on a contract approval workflow, her eyes kept drifting back to the corner of the screen, where the security camera feed from her VicoHome app quietly streamed the backyard. Nothing was detected by the motion detector, but she didn’t feel alone.
Around lunchtime, her phone buzzed with a group text from Cheryl and Lynette.
Cheryl: Y’all. I think something’s up again.
Lynette: I’m on patrol. Garden still looks suspicious.
Cheryl: Did we ever hear back from Blake about what Daisy found last week?
Lynette: I texted. He said “just a bone.”
Cheryl: Vague. I don’t like vague.
Sawyer: I’m dying of allergies. But also yes. Something’s weird.
Five minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Cheryl breezed in with her usual flair – hoodie, leggings, two fountain drinks, and a reusable shopping bag full of allergy meds and cinnamon rolls.
“Don’t argue,” she said, setting everything down like she lived there. “You look like an undercooked pancake.”
“I feel like an undercooked pancake,” Sawyer croaked.
As Cheryl was laying out her aerial map like it was a war briefing, Sawyer heard a muffled “Mornin’, ladies!” through the screen door. Blake jogged by with his Golden Retriever, Daisy, loping beside him with the carefree spirit of someone who’d never heard the word “conflict.”
“She found a skunk yesterday,” he added, barely breaking stride. “Rolled in it. Took three baths and a full can of Febreze.”
“Living her best life,” Cheryl called back, not looking up from her diagram.
Sawyer smiled despite herself. Daisy let out a single happy woof as they passed, then trotted on down the sidewalk like the mayor.
Looking back at Cheryl’s map, she said, “What’s your theory?”
Cheryl took a long sip of her Diet Dr. Pepper. “Somebody is tidying the garden. Not just digging. Fixing it. Like they want it to look untouched but don’t want to draw suspicion.”
Sawyer raised an eyebrow. “So… landscaping but shady?”
“Exactly. Stealth-scaping. The worst kind.” Cheryl pulled a folded sheet of paper from her hoodie pocket and laid it on the table. It was a printed Google Earth screenshot of the Ferguson lot. “I measured it. From the back fence to the spot we found the box, it’s approximately 13 feet. And guess what’s exactly 13 feet away on the other side?”
Sawyer leaned in, squinting. “The shed? But what does thirtee–”
Cheryl nodded. “Bingo. Which, by the way, has a vent. Not a window. A vent. That’s where I think the movement’s coming from. Someone’s been in there. Probably watching.”
Sawyer felt a chill that had nothing to do with her low-grade fever. “You think they were watching me? And what’s the big deal about the ‘vent not a window’?”
“You can’t see in, but there is airflow. Who needs air? Humans. I think they’re watching anyone who gets close.” Cheryl tapped the page again. “And I think they’re waiting.”
Not Nothing
Russo growled low from the hallway, unprompted. Cheryl froze. Sawyer sat up straighter. “What is it, boy?” she said, half-joking and half not.
Riggins darted to the window, barking once, sharp and urgent. Rafa, unbothered, remained on his pillow. Sawyer crossed the room and peeked through the blinds.
Nothing. No person. No movement. But a single hydrangea bloom near the fence bobbed oddly – like someone had brushed against it and just slipped out of view.
She didn’t say anything. Just slowly turned the lock on the back door.
Later that evening, long after Cheryl had left and the dogs had settled into their usual evening nap pile, Sawyer sat back down at her Scribe. She stared at the blank page for a long time before writing just one line:
“Someone is trying to hide something – but they’re not doing it very well.”
She paused, then added another: “And I’m starting to think we were never the only ones looking.”
Just before she powered down, she opened her email. Somewhere in her inbox was that email from the pet agent – the one offering Russo and Rafa a holiday-themed pet commercial shoot in Nolensville. She hadn’t responded yet. Something about matching scarves and “zoom and vibe” energy felt wildly off-key in a week like this.
Stay tuned for our next episode….