“I can show you the video,” Mara said.

“We’ll take it,” Keene replied. “But tell me about the animals first. Did you receive threats?”

Mara shook her head. “The group has been getting unpleasant messages online. People say greyhound rescue groups take dogs from the people who raised them. That’s not what happened here. These dogs were transferred after a kennel surrendered them.”

Cedar nudged her hand, forcing her to look down. She stroked his ears automatically. Across the room, a pale fawn female named June was trying to climb onto a chair too small for her. A black male called Ledger stood beside the water bowl, waiting politely for the others to finish. Pumpkin, a red brindle with a shaved patch on her side, rested near the air vent. Tully had a white muzzle, Patch wore a blue collar with a damaged clasp, and Iris would not come close to anyone wearing heavy boots.

Seven names. Seven ordinary, frightened animals. Each had arrived with a vaccination record and enough food for three days. None had come with an explanation for why a stranger would want them back.

Officer Keene examined the yellow foam wedge recovered from the gate. It had been cut from the corner of a thicker mat. Nothing about it identified a person. What mattered was that its placement showed preparation. Mara noticed Keene looking at the camera angle on her phone.

“She knew exactly where to stand,” Mara said.

“Possibly,” the officer replied. “Or somebody told her. We’ll speak with her. For now, no one visits these dogs without us knowing about it.”

Mara called Second Mile’s director, Nisha Patel. Nisha was at a veterinary clinic forty miles away, arranging examinations for two other dogs from the same surrender. She stopped speaking when Mara explained the garage intrusion.

“The crates?” Nisha asked. “He went for the crates, not the animals?”

“He tried for both. Why?”

“Because whoever sent him knew the dogs would resist strangers. Crates make them easier to move. Mara, keep the collars on. I’m coming.”

Mara asked what Nisha wasn’t saying.

“I don’t know yet. Don’t let the names get changed.”

By noon, Mara’s nephew Owen had come downstairs and confessed the meaning of his earlier message. He had heard a van outside before the garbage appeared, and through his bedroom window he had seen a man examining a phone. The screen displayed a photograph of Cedar.

“I thought maybe somebody was adopting him,” Owen said. “I wasn’t supposed to be looking out, but he kept pointing at our house.”

“You did the right thing telling me,” Mara said. “Next time, tell me immediately.”

“There won’t be a next time, right?”

Mara wished she could promise. Instead she told him to help her carry fresh towels to the sunroom.