Hawthorne Grove had always been a neighborhood of routine. Everyone knew everyone’s business—whether they wanted to or not. The same faces, the same passive-aggressive yard signs, the same HOA drama. But today, something was different.
Sawyer had just taken a break from her daily ritual of refreshing her inbox—still no word from the pet agent—when she spotted him.
A man in his late 30s stood on the front lawn of the old Patterson house, the one that had been empty for months. He was tall, well-built, and wearing a button-down shirt far too nice for hauling moving boxes.
From two doors down, Cheryl and Lynette were already peeking from behind a privacy fence, sipping iced tea like it was their job.
“I’m telling you,” Cheryl whispered, “that’s a government-issued clipboard.”
Lynette squinted. “Witness protection. Has to be. That house has black SUV energy.”
Meanwhile, Sawyer tightened the dogs’ leashes. Riggins, Russo, and Rafa were dragging her along like a sled team, but she managed to steer them in the direction of the mystery man.
As she got closer, she saw him studying the property with laser focus, clipboard in hand, like he was either flipping it or planning a mission.
“Hey there,” Sawyer called. “New in the neighborhood?”
The man looked up and smiled. “Yeah. Just moved in. I’m Blake. Getting the lay of the land.”
Sawyer grinned. “Welcome to the jungle.”
He laughed. “I’ve lived in worse places. This one just needs some love.”
The Patterson house had been borderline haunted-looking for a while now – peeling paint, overgrown hedges, the whole vibe of a true-crime podcast intro.
“You planning to fix it up?” Sawyer asked.
Blake nodded. “That’s the plan. Might take a while. This place has… a few quirks.”
Sawyer smirked. “Don’t we all.”
Riggins barked once, then flopped onto the grass in surrender. Russo had a tennis ball. Rafa was trying to charm Blake with intense eye contact.
“Those are some beautiful dogs,” Blake said.
“Thanks. Riggins, Russo, and Rafa. They’re… a team.”
“I’ve got a Golden Retriever. Daisy. She’s chaos wrapped in fur.”
Sawyer laughed. “Then she’ll fit in perfectly.”
Blake glanced back at the house, the smile fading just a bit. “I’m hoping this turns out to be a good investment. We’ll see.”
Something about the way he said it made Sawyer tilt her head. “You sound like a man with a plan.”
“I like to think so,” Blake replied. “But sometimes, plans don’t go the way you expect.”
Sawyer tucked that away for later. New neighbors were always interesting, but Blake? Blake had story energy.
As she turned to leave, she saw Cheryl and Lynette still lurking like suburban spies.
“FBI safe house,” Cheryl mouthed.
Sawyer slowly shook her head as she struggled to keep the boys’ leashes from tangling. She just smiled and kept walking past Lynette and Cheryl. This was going to get interesting.
That night, Sawyer took the boys out for their final “good jobs”, the sky dim and orange with the last bits of summer sun. As they rounded the corner near the Patterson house where Blake was moving in, she slowed.
A black SUV – no logos, no plates she could see – was parked just a little too precisely at the curb.
A man in dark clothing hopped out, popped the back, and pulled a large sealed crate from the trunk. Not a box. A crate.
He didn’t ring the doorbell. He just carried it around back, like he’d done it before.
Sawyer stood frozen for a moment, unsure if she should keep walking or stage a neighborhood watch intervention.
Rafa yipped softly.
“Yeah, bubba,” she whispered. “I don’t know what that was either.”
She picked up the pace and headed home. She wasn’t about to get tangled in some FBI sting – or whatever the hell Blake was wrapped up in.
But still… she’d be watching.
And if Cheryl didn’t already know about the crate, well, she would by sunrise.
Next time on DOOL: