Dad frowned toward the window, then set his mug down and said, “Who on earth is calling for me this early?”
By the time I stepped onto the porch behind him, our neighbor Mrs. Donnelly was already at the curb with her phone held chest-high, recording as if she’d been waiting her whole retirement for this moment.
I didn’t ask where the dogs came from or where they went.
Mr. Grayson stood beside her. Mrs. Perez hovered near her mailbox, twisting her fingers together and watching the driveway.
A county cruiser sat crooked near the curb. Two uniformed officers stood by the gate, one younger, one older with deep lines around his mouth. The younger one did the talking.
Dad walked down the porch steps in his work boots and flannel shirt.
Mrs. Donnelly lifted her phone higher. “Tell them what you’ve been doing in that garage, Walter.”
Dad didn’t look at her. “Morning to you, too, Mrs. Donnelly.”
“Tell them what you’ve been doing in that garage, Walter.
Grayson muttered, “Don’t charm your way out of it, Walter. Admit it.”The younger county officer cleared his throat. “Sir, we’ve had multiple reports. Neighbors claim you’ve been bringing dogs home from shelters, and the animals come in but are never seen again. Some believe money may be involved.”
