The thick, mahogany-veneered door of the Flynn family apartment offered little protection against the torrent of a***e raining down from the hallway. Inside, Carvel stood frozen, her hand hovering over a teapot as the porcelain rattled against its saucer. The voice outside was unmistakable—a coarse, gravelly roar that smelled of cheap tobacco and unearned confidence. It was Max Hayden, the local contractor whose sense of self-importance was as oversized as the luxury SUV Dominic Mylod had systematically dismantled only hours prior.
"Open this door, you cowards!" Max Hayden bellowed, followed by a dull, heavy thud as a boot struck the wood. "I know you're in there, Carvel! You think you can hide behind a deadbolt after your pet lunatic turned my two-hundred-thousand-dollar Rover into a hea
