The bell above the door of Mrs. Benoit’s small, cluttered shop jingled, announcing the arrival of Mavin Doss.
Mrs. Benoit, a woman etched with the harsh lines of a life lived on the edge, barely looked up from the worn ledger she was meticulously balancing.
She was a picture of controlled efficiency, her movements precise and deliberate, her gaze sharp and assessing.
Around fifty-six, her age was belied by the steely glint in her eyes, the set of her jaw – a woman who’d weathered countless storms and emerged unbroken.
Mavin Doss, on the other hand, was all swagger and bravado. He was younger, his expensive suit a stark contrast to the gritty reality of his profession.
He moved with the confident arrogance of a man accustomed to getting his way, his gaze sweeping over the cramped sp
