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Blinking fast to stop the tears that flowed of their own accord, Francesca gulped for the breath to speak. “You j-just t-tried to k-kill me.”
“That’s not true! The dog must’ve smelled you, because he took off on his own. I tried to stop him. It’s not my fault if you won’t obey the signs. There are Beware of Dog notices all over this place!”
Nauseous and weak, Francesca laid her head on her knees. “You sicced him on me, and you know it.”
“Butch?”
Evidently, the blast of Jonah’s gun had brought Paris to the porch. Hovering on the top step, she clutched one of the support posts as if she was afraid to come any closer. But afraid of what? Jonah’s gun? Or her husband’s reaction? “Butch, what’s wrong?” she asked, her voice reed-thin. “What was that shot about?”
“They killed Demon,” he called. “They shot him!”
“Get in the van,” Jonah told Francesca, and jerked his head toward it.
Francesca wasn’t sure the van was drivable. It looked pretty banged up. But she didn’t argue. Wanting to get out of the salvage yard, she gathered her strength, got to her feet and limped past the inert body of the Doberman.
“You’re in trouble, Butch,” she heard Jonah say as she reached the passenger side and climbed in. “Serious trouble.”
“She’s the one who’s in trouble,” he insisted. “I’m going to get a restraining order against her. She has to stop harassing us. I was nice enough to return her purse when I found it, and this is the thanks I get?”
“Wow, he ran the gate.” This came from someone else, someone who sounded emotionally removed.
Swiping at her wet eyes, Francesca ducked her head to see through Jonah’s open window. Dean stood on the porch beside his sister, and from the tone of his voice, he thought this was good fun instead of upsetting and dangerous.
Paris was too worried about her husband to react to Dean. “Butch, come here. Don’t say a word. We’ll get a lawyer. They can’t do this. They can’t come onto our property, wreck our fence and kill our dog. We didn’t do anything to them. They’re going to pay for this.”
Butch didn’t seem reassured by his wife’s solace. He was too focused on Demon. “You had no right,” he told Jonah as he knelt and lifted the dog’s body into his arms. “You had no right to even be here.”
“Go get the video camera,” Paris told Dean, and he hurried off.
Hugging herself to control the shaking, Francesca cringed at the thought of anyone recording the van sitting wrecked in the yard, Butch’s dog dead, tears streaking down everyone’s faces. She knew how it would look. The video wouldn’t show Butch purposely locking her in and ordering his dog to attack her.
Something wet and sticky dripped onto her leg. Blood. She hadn’t realized she was bleeding but of course she would be. Demon had chomped down on her arm and refused to let go.
To staunch the flow, she wrapped the bottom of her shirt around her injured forearm. She shouldn’t have come here. She’d wanted to stop a killer, but she’d only made the situation worse. Even Jonah was hurt. He favored his right leg as he backed cautiously away from Butch.
“Get me the purse you took,” he said when he reached the front grille of the van. “And this time don’t say you don’t have it. I saw you bring it to your family.”
Burying his face in his dog’s fur, Butch ignored him.
“Now!” Jonah shouted. “Unless you and your entire family want to be arrested, you’ll get the damn purse.”
It was Paris who moved. She went inside and returned with Francesca’s handbag. Dean followed closely behind her with the video, narrating as he filmed. “Demon is dead,” he said. “And this is the man who shot him.”
“I’m calling the cops,” Paris yelled as she threw the purse at Jonah’s feet.
“You do that.” He gathered up the items that fell out before coming around to the driver’s side of the van.
“I’m sorry. I—This was such a mistake,” Francesca said as he got in.
He made no comment. “You okay?”
She wiped her wet cheeks again. “I think I might need a few stitches.”
“How many times did he bite you?”
“J-just once.” She couldn’t seem to stop her teeth from chattering. “I don’t know how bad it is. I c-can’t see well enough in this light. B-but it hurts.”
“Let’s hope he’s had all his shots.” As he turned the key in the ignition, the starter made a grinding sound but the engine didn’t catch. Pumping the gas pedal, he tried again.
