Sarah’s tone stayed polite. “And you are?” A beat—more irritation than fear, like he wasn’t used to being questioned. “Marcus,” he said. “Marcus Hale.” Eleanor’s stomach tightened. Sarah didn’t look away. “This dog was brought in by Mrs. Wittmann,” she said, nodding toward Eleanor. “He’s with her.” Marcus’s smile flickered—then returned thinner.
“Right,” he said, as if recalibrating. “Okay. I may have the wrong clinic.” Sarah held steady. “What dog were you expecting?” “German Shepherd,” Marcus said. “Male.” “That describes a lot of dogs,” Sarah replied. A pause. Marcus’s eyes dropped to the collar, then back to Sarah’s face. He forced an easy breath. “Sorry,” he said, lifting his hands slightly.