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“Just across the road,” I pause, weighing how much to reveal. “I need to check on my dog.”

“You have a dog!” The excitement in her voice catches me off-guard.

“Yeah. You okay around those?” The words are out of my mouth before I realize it.

She’s not going to see Saint because I’m not bringing him back here. I’m only going to say goodbye, that’s all.

She lets out a short laugh, tension easing from her shoulders. “Of course. I’m fine with dogs. Delilah . . .” She trails off, her smile fading as she remembers her friend’s betrayal. “Delilah has an adorable sausage dog.”

I suppress a snort. The image of Saint next to some fluffy lap dog is almost comical. “Yeah, well, this one’s bigger than that.”

She narrows her eyes, a hint of wariness creeping in. “How much bigger?”

“Considerably.”

Her mouth twists. “Well, as long as he’s . . . housebroken. You know, actually trained.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Unlike his owner, don’t you mean?”

She smirks. “If the shoe fits.”

I don’t bother to respond, determined that she’ll see for herself soon enough. Saint’s no family pet— he’s not fond of strangers, and the feeling’s usually mutual. Even Sophie keeps her distance.

Leaving her surrounded by Sophie’s pastel paradise, I head across the street.

17

Cade

My knuckles barely graze Gertrude’s door before it swings open, revealing a slim woman in her late sixties. Her lined face brightens in a grin.

Gertrude Willoughby is a force of nature wrapped in a floral apron—a retired army cadet turned suburban grandmother and the only other person besides Scar and me who can handle Saint without flinching.

“Cade! It’s been a while.” She wipes flour-covered hands on her apron, leaving ghostly handprints. “I was wondering when you’d re—”

Thunder on hardwood cuts her off as Saint announces himself. A hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle and devotion barrels toward me, nearly taking me down in his excitement, his entire rear end wagging with unrestrained joy.

I drop to one knee, and Saint claims his spot, his massive front paws landing on my shoulder. As I scratch behind his cropped ears—that one spot he can never quite reach—I feel the tension of the past hours finally start to bleed away. This, right here, with my hand buried in Saint’s thick fur, is the closest thing to peace I know.

“Thanks for watching him, ma’am,” I say, glancing up to catch Gertrude’s knowing smile.

Her dusty hands smooth her apron as she watches us, pale blue eyes twinkling beneath silver brows. “You and I both know he’s been the one watching me.”

True enough. Saint might play the pet for Gertrude, but we all know who’s really guarding whom.

I dip my head in acknowledgment and stand, still hugging Saint. His paws drop to my chest, and he tries to lick my face despite knowing better—his discipline crumbling under excitement.

Remembering the blinking light on her security, I say, “Your memory is full again, ma’am. You forgot to erase the video feeds last week.”

She touches her forehead where silver wisps have escaped her usually neat bun, a flash of frustration crossing her features. “Oh! Three weeks is a long time to remember everything.”

The look we share speaks volumes. We both understand my concern isn’t just about memory space, but her own failing memory.

“On the floor, mate,” I murmur to Saint, who is finally calm enough to let me take his collar off. He hits the hardwood floors with athud and sits, though his tongue is still lolling and his docked tail beats a staccato rhythm on the floor.

“How was he, ma’am?” I ask Gertrude.

“Oh, he was an absolute gem,” she says, beaming down at us. “We have an understanding, haven’t we, St. Michael? He helps me get my steps in and I let him sit by the window and watch out for you, which is a special treat.”