“Someone restrain that animal,” the prosecutor snapped. The bailiff moved forward, but the dog didn’t retreat. Instead, Scout sniffed the air again, nose pressed toward a metallic tag sealed in plastic among the evidence. His tail remained perfectly still.
“Scout,” the girl mouthed. It was barely a breath. Merritt caught it anyway. He felt something stir inside him: the faint, unfamiliar tug between doubt and instinct. This wasn’t chaos. It was intent. Something meaningful hid beneath the surface.