Evie stifled a yawn as she pulled on her gloves. She hadn’t really slept until Gregory had left just before dawn. Not that she minded. She felt tired in that glorious, fulfilling way one did when one realized some things were simply better than sleep.

Foster opened the door for her as she stepped outside.

“I won’t be too long,” she said before turning to the right and walking to her neighbors’ house to discuss the dog situation.

Mr. and Mrs. Kirby were in their later fifties, probably, their children grown with children of their own. More than once, Evie had seen them all walking together—a big, happy family. It had seemed so foreign to her.

She rapped on their door and was soon greeted by a housekeeper. The woman, in her thirties, with a long, slender face and businesslike mien, greeted Evie.

“Good afternoon,” Evie said, presenting her card. “I’m here to see Mrs. Kirby. Or Mr. Kirby. Or both. It’s a…sensitive matter concerning their dog.”

The housekeeper’s brows shot up briefly. She nodded. “Come in. They will see you in the drawing room.”

The house was laid out almost identically to Evie’s, but she followed the housekeeper upstairs to the drawing room. It was decorated much differently, of course, with muted colors of yellow and gray. A cheerful painting of daffodils graced one wall, and Evie went to inspect it.

A few moments later, the Kirbys arrived. Mr. Kirby was short and angular, his dark eyes assessing Evie. Mrs. Kirby was nearly as tall as her husband, but much softer. She smiled upon seeing Evie and welcomed her warmly. “Would you like tea?” she asked.

“No, thank you. I came to speak with you about your dog.”

Mr. Kirby’s brow had formed deep furrows as they all sat down. “Is there a problem?”

“I will hope not, but I wanted to inform you that my dog—well, not my dog, but my friend’s dog whom I was watching overnight—stole into your garden. I’m afraid there’s a hole in the wall. Perhaps you’re not aware.”

“We’re aware,” Mrs. Kirby said, her voice a bit tight. She sent a glance toward her husband, and Evie could almost hear the sentiment behind it. The hole was not only known to them, but Mrs. Kirby had been asking to have it repaired. Evie would bet on it.

“Well, my friend’s dog got in—”

“How was your dog even able to do that?” Mr. Kirby asked. “Was he not contained in your own garden?”

“Don’t be accusatory, dear,” Mrs. Kirby said. She gave Evie a warm, expectant smile. While she was more polite than her husband, she clearly also wanted to know how Ash had found his way into their garden.