She watched as Agent Sawyer stepped onto the porch, taking the steps two at a time, and approached the front door. He didn’t knock first, but instead sidled along the window, glancing through a gap in the curtain beyond. For a moment, he stood, inhaling softly through his nose, one hand moving to the holster at his waist.

He seemed more poised, attentive, than he’d been at the other houses.

Gut instinct. Doesn’t feel right.

She could only hope the strange agent’s feelings didn’t get anyone hurt.

At that moment, as Sawyer raised a hand to knock against the door, it suddenly opened inward, and a bright orange light was clicked on, flooding the entryway and casting a long shadow out across the patio.

A man in a dusty shirt stood framed in the doorway. A sudden loud barking echoed out into the night, and the man’s thick leg blockaded what looked like a couple of pit bulls who were snarling and slobbering and growling in the direction of the folks on their porch. The man in the overalls blinked blearily, glaring out onto the patio, one of his hands tucked just behind the door frame.

Sawyer seemed to note this hand out of sight and frowned, his own fingers gripping his holster.

“Federal agent,” Sawyer said, quickly. “Are you Mr. Campos?”

The dogs were barking even louder now, straining behind their owner’s leg. The man in the door had a round beer belly, bare and visible over the edge of tattered, dirt-splattered jeans so wrinkled they looked like they’d likely been slept in for the last month.

Behind him, Ilse spotted an old, run-down couch, with all manner of bottles scattered across the ground, and wedged in gaps of the furniture itself.

The dogs barked even louder until Ilse’s head hurt. She watched Sawyer stand, calm, cool, collected, one hand on his holster, the other cautioning toward Mr. Campos.

“Who’s asking?” the man declared, his voice like a trumpet in the still dawn.

“Agent Sawyer, FBI. I need to speak with you, Mr. Campos. Please keep your animals restrained.”

“You threatening to shoot my dogs?” the man demanded, jutting out his chin and his beer belly. A bit of spit seemed to have dried across his chest, along with the contents of one of those bottles behind him. The man’s eyes were ringed red, and he winced against the faint rays of sun over the house.

“Keep your hounds back,” said Sawyer. He didn’t have a note of fear; rather, his voice carried a strange inevitability, as if he knew what was coming, but had to playact the buildup anyway.

“Get off my property!”

Sawyer reached slowly into his pocket, pulling out a badge. “FBI,” he said, enunciating slowly. “Keep the dogs back, and come out.” He seemed even more poised now, his legs braced, angled, his hands steady, his eyes fixed on the potential threat.

“Get off my property!” the man in question screamed. “And take that little bitch with you!” He waved toward were Ilse watched from the bottom of the patio steps.