Phones were raised, yes, but hands did not reach out.
Lydia wiped at her bag hysterically while Grant barked threats about lawsuits, and Evelyn lay on the floor staring at the ceiling lights, realizing that humiliation hurt more than her bones.
“Don’t move,” Grant snapped. “You’re not going anywhere until you pay for that bag.”
Her voice cracked. “Please… my son…”
Grant kicked the envelope away.
The door chimed.
A German Shepherd entered first, massive and alert, wearing a service vest, followed by a man whose presence changed the room without him saying a word.
His name was Marcus Hale, though no one there knew it yet, and he carried himself with the quiet density of someone who had lived through things most people couldn’t imagine, his scarred knuckles relaxed, eyes scanning instinctively, locking immediately onto the woman on the floor.
The dog growled.
Low. Controlled. Warning.
