Scarlett POV
Havenwoods again.
This route was burned into my muscle memory; I could walk it blindfolded.
Out the main gate, two quick turns, past that gnarled old oak with the twisted trunk leaning as if it was eavesdropping.
Headphones in, some indie rock pulsing low, my brain already mapping out the day’s workload for the Allens.
Then, right on cue, there he was.
Gary Hirsch.
Or, more accurately, his dog, Tank, spotted me first.
The big white Samoyed exploded down the sidewalk like a furry missile, ears flapping, paws scrambling in a blur. Gary got yanked forward a step, cursing under his breath, face twisted as he’d bitten into something sour.
“Whoa, easy, buddy...” Gary muttered, but Tank was already on me.
I dropped into a crouch, burying my hands in that thick, cloud-s
