Because I don’t like to talk, I taught Lick our own form of sign language, which she responds to very well. I once verbally instructed her to follow me, but she ignored me and remained lying down until I indicated for her to come. Only then did she get up to carry out the order.
Lick comes over to me, and when her left ear keeps twitching, I give her scratches. She leans into my hand, letting out little moans of pleasure.
It’s weird. I have no problem touching animals, but when it comes to people, it makes me want to crawl out of my skin. I always have to take a scorching hot shower and scrub my skin raw to get rid of the sickening disgust.
Looking into Lick’s pretty blue eyes, warmth spreads through my chest. The vet says she’s one-quarter Australian shepherd, and that’s where she got her blue eyes from.
“Hi, Levi,” I hear one of my neighbors call. I only spare the woman a quick look.
I’ve never bothered to remember her name, and as she starts to walk in my direction, I get up and go inside. I shut the back door and lock it, then head to my office.
I don’t care if people think I’m an asshole. It takes way too much energy to pretend to be social.
When I sit down on my chair, it creaks. Lick lies down on the couch I’ve placed beside my desk and rests her head on her pillow. Sometimes she’s more human than I am.
Looking at the screen again, I let out a sigh.
What the hell am I going to write?
Forcing myself to focus, I begin to play around with ideas, but nothing sticks. Two hours later, I give up and open my internet browser. I read through the latest news until a specific article grabs my attention.
The three men who’ve been arrested for the brutal murder of the mayor of Verona, WI, have been identified as Trent Crawford, Wesley Porter, and Dustin Baker.
Holy fuck.
Shock shudders through me as I stare at the names before I read the rest of the article. As I learn about the deaths of the mayor, his wife, and their daughter, an unsettling emotion takes root in my chest. Something akin to guilt.
It says one person survived the brutal attack, and then my eyes lock on a photo of the survivor. Her name is Kelcie Woodruff, and she’s only twenty-four. I take in the beautiful face and the happiness shining from her eyes.
Never again will she look happy like she does in the photo. Not after suffering through such a brutal attack and losing her family.
I begin searching for every bit of news I can find regarding the murders and Kelcie, and by the time the room starts growing dark around me as the sun sets, I feel sick to my stomach.
Wiping my palm over my face, I close my eyes while I try to process what I’ve just learned.
Lick gets up from her bed and comes to rest her head on my thigh. I place my hand on her soft fur, and letting out a sigh, I climb to my feet so I can feed her.
While I go through the motions of warming up her dinner, which consists of chicken liver, veggies, and rice, I blankly stare at the timer on the microwave.
The guilt I’ve been feeling since I read the initial article keeps growing.
It’s none of your business. You left that life behind when you ran away.
The microwave beeps, and I remove the container so I can stir the food and make sure it’s not too hot. I mix it in with some dry dog food before setting Lick’s bowl down so she can eat.
I should make myself something to eat as well, but I have zero appetite.
I keep seeing Kelcie Woodruff’s happy face in my mind’s eye, and as I watch Lick devour her dinner, I feel more and more guilty about what happened to her family.
It’s tragic, but it has nothing to do with you.
Chapter 4
Kelcie
A year later . . .
With my back resting against the tree and sitting cross-legged on the grass, I stare at the three headstones.
