Nothing out of place.
Which didn’t mean anything.
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” the woman said, finally running out of steam.
“Appreciate it,” Law answered.
Sage inclined his head slightly—acknowledgment without invitation.
The woman walked away with her small dog in tow.
Buckshot trotted back toward him a second later, falling in at his side like he’d always been there.
Sage’s hand dropped briefly, fingers brushing over the dog’s head—automatic, grounding—before his focus shifted again to the neighborhood.
Everything about it looked right.
Which meant it probably wasn’t.
Law came to stand beside him, solid and unhurried.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then Sage shifted his weight forward, already done with the outside.
“Let’s go,” he said.
And headed for the door.
Inside, the house swallowed sound.
The door shut behind them with a quiet click that carried farther than it should have. Empty space did that—held onto noise, stretched it thin.
Sage moved first.
Not fast. Not slow. Just enough to take the room apart piece by piece as he passed through it—corners, sightlines, windows. The kind of scan that didn’t look like anything unless you knew what you were seeing.
Clean.
Too clean to be lived in. Not clean enough to be untouched.
Staged.
He dropped his bag on the kitchen island and flipped it open, already pulling out his laptop, cables, and a compact scanner. Screens came to life in low blue, set at angles away from the windows.
Behind him, Law moved through the house in a wider sweep—bedroom, back exit, a pause at the rear window. Different pattern. Same result.
Clear.
Or close enough to it.
Time settled in after that.
Not quiet—never quiet—but stretched. Measured in passing cars, the shift of light across the floor, the low hum of the system kicking on and off. Nothing urgent. Nothing pushing.
Waiting.
Sage set up at the island, feeds pulling in, signals mapping across his screen. No chatter. No anomalies. No reason for his shoulders to stay as tight as they were.
