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“That’s it,” I murmur, as he ducks his head and begins to inch shyly toward me. “There’s no need to be afraid. I’ve got you. Good boy.”
Finally, he stops close enough for me to pet him. I stroke him over the head, behind his ears, muttering without really hearing the words. I’m just trying to calm the poor little guy down.
“Let’s get you warm, eh?” I say, feeling a tiny nugget of warmth in my chest when I see his tail begin to wag.
I’ll get him in the car and then read his tag, I decide, though I don’t relish the idea of getting involved with the townsfolk any more than I absolutely have to.
But what the fuck am I going to do, leave the poor dog out here all by himself?
That just isn’t in my nature.Chapter TwoMillieI return from my shift at the diner ready to collapse into a heap as soon as I step through the door.
I park inside Jackie’s garage—my garage, I remind myself, since my friend has insisted I start thinking of her house as my own despite me only living here for five months.
I sit in the car for a few moments, breathing steadily, telling myself that he can’t get me here, not now.
“You saved my life,” I told Jackie a few nights ago, after a glass or two of wine. We were celebrating my twenty-first birthday with me being able to drink legally, sitting by the fire with Lava curled up at our feet.
Jackie is a few years older than me at twenty-five. We met on a cooking forum and became close, chatting online. When I finally told her about all the craziness that was going on in my life on the west coast, she insisted that I come stay with her.
It seemed crazy at first.
Move to the other side of the country to live with a woman I barely knew?
But the second we met we both knew that our online friendship would translate beautifully to real life.
She has a big gorgeous house sitting at the edge of the forest, and since her divorce was finalized she was looking for a lodger anyway.
“You saved mine,” she’d joked. “It’s spooky living here all by myself.”
I have to agree with her as I climb from my car and head toward the door to the house. Jackie’s out for the evening – another date – so I’ve got the place to myself. The central heating is timed to come on when I arrive, so it’s nice and toasty when I step through the door.
At least it should be.
But as I walk deeper into the house, I feel a chill blow through the house.
“What the heck?” I murmur to myself, staring at the back door, creaking as it swings in the air, wide open.
Lava.
I feel my belly lurch when it hits me.
Nobody enters this house without receiving a barrage of kisses and wagging-tail attention from Jackie’s three year old Golden Retriever, the most loving dog in the world. I run around the house, calling his name, checking all of his usual spots.
In front of the fire, in the basement next to the laundry basket, at the foot of Jackie’s bed, at the foot of my bed.
I come up empty, and quickly run back downstairs and out the back door, praying that the gate isn’t open like the door is.
But the gate is swinging in the wind, too, whining metallically.
No, no, no.
I was the last one to leave this morning, starting my shift at ten o’clock whereas Jackie gets into her accountancy job at half-past eight. I search my mind for any sign that I left the back door and the gate open, but I’m sure I didn’t.
Why the heck would I?
I went from the breakfast table to the garage and then drove into town for work. I had no reason to come into the back yard. Jackie’s the only one who comes out here, especially in this biting cold, because she’s a smoker and prefers to do it away from the house.
Is it possible she left it open and I left without noticing it?
Possible, but unlikely, I decide.
She’s very protective of Lava. We both are.
I take out my cellphone, walking back into the house, ready to call Jackie, and hear how she finished work early and took Lava on a walk through the woods. She does that sometimes, despite the brutality of the Maine winter, wrapping Lava in his winter coat and roaming for miles before returning home. It helps her think.
I bite my nails as I call, a habit I’m constantly telling myself I’m going to quit. My nails show how successful that endeavor has been. The only one I haven’t gnawed down to a stub is my thumb, and I get to work on that now, heart thudding in my chest as the phone rings over and over.
