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Prologue
The neighborhood is quiet. Too quiet.
It is Friday evening, and the streetlights are flickering on, casting long shadows across the lawns. Most dogs are inside with their humans, eating dinner, waiting for the evening walk. But I am not inside. I am outside, creeping through the tall grass, my belly low to the ground.
Every dog in Raven Brook knows the rule: Never go near House Number 13.
The humans say the house is empty. They say the owner moved away years ago. But we know better. We know someone lives there. We know someone watches from the windows.
His name is Baron.
I should not be here. I know I should not be here. But I had to know.
My friend, a golden retriever puppy named Max, went to House Number 13 three days ago. He was chasing a rabbit. He was stupid, brave, and curious—just like me. He never came back. His human, Mrs. Henderson, has been crying every night. She put up posters. She asked the neighbors. No one has seen Max.
But I saw him. Or I saw something that looked like him.
Yesterday, I found a tuft of golden fur caught on the wooden fence near House Number 13. Just a few strands, but I recognized the color. I recognized the smell. It was Max.
So here I am. I am small—a terrier mix, quick and quiet. I can fit under the wooden fence. I press my body flat and crawl through the gap. The wood scrapes against my back, but I do not make a sound.
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