When Michael’s belongings came back, Rex was the only living thing that still felt like him. For a while, Eleanor wasn’t alone. Then a thunderstorm snapped a fence latch and Rex bolted into the dark. She searched until hope felt stupid.
Her bag slipped. Eggs hit the pavement with a soft crack. “Of course,” she muttered, bending carefully, one hand braced on the bumper. As she reached for the carton, the hairs on her arms lifted. That clean, unmistakable feeling—someone watching her with intention.