Sawyer wasn’t trying to be nosy. Not exactly. It was just that the side gate behind the Ferguson house was open, and the hydrangeas looked… aggressively hydrated for a place no one had lived in for months.
Riggins trotted beside her like he was on patrol. Leash slack. Nose working. Russo dragged his heels in his harness, deeply unconvinced this was the best use of his morning.
The sun hadn’t fully cracked the horizon yet, and the neighborhood still had that hush – like even the birds were holding their breath.
Sawyer paused at the edge of the fence. From this angle, she could see a neat row of planters by the back porch. Fresh soil. Green growth. It wasn’t overgrown like a weed takeover. It was purposeful. Cared for.
That house was supposed to be empty.
She stepped through the gap in the fence, crouched low beside the wall of flowering hydrangeas – and her phone rang. Sawyer flinched so hard she nearly dropped it in the mulch. “Unknown Number” flashed across the screen.
“Hello?” she whispered, instinctively ducking behind the shrub like the flowers could somehow absorb suspicion.
A chipper voice answered. “Is this Sawyer Calhoun? Hi! This is Kendra with the Karen Hale Talent Group!”
Sawyer blinked. “Uh – yes! This is she. Me. I mean – hi.”
“We loved Riggins’ headshot. Such a handsome pup! We’d love to see you both at an open audition this Thursday. It’s for a regional car dealership spot. Super fun. Can you make it?”
Sawyer glanced at Riggins. He looked smug. Russo huffed like he could smell the favoritism.
“Yes, absolutely. We’ll be there,” she said, still crouched behind the neighbor’s bush like a contestant on America’s Most Suspicious Homeowners.
“Great! Dress casual, bring treats, and don’t be nervous. We love Cavaliers!” Click.
Sawyer sat frozen for a beat. “Riggs,” she whispered. “You’re going to be on TV.”
A twig snapped behind her.
She turned slowly. Maya stood at the edge of the Ferguson lawn in a hoodie and sneakers, holding what looked like a protein shake and absolutely zero facial expression.
Sawyer opened her mouth. Maya beat her to it. “I’d stay away from that garden if I were you.”
Then she turned and walked off like she hadn’t just dropped a line straight out of a horror film.
Sawyer stood up, brushing the mulch from her knees. Riggins wagged once. Russo sighed dramatically.
“I’m not saying it’s aliens,” she muttered, “but if y’all start glowing, I’m out.”
Across the street, Cheryl’s curtains twitched. Upstairs in her craft room, Cheryl rewound the drone footage. There it was – again. A figure moving across the Ferguson lawn well before sunrise. She leaned in, squinting at the screen. The timestamp didn’t lie.
Someone was tending that garden. And it sure wasn’t a raccoon.
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