Page 11 of Weight of Guilt

Nash didn’t feel honored.

He crossed onto the neighbor’s land, one hand fisted on Bo’s collar and his complaint already loaded before he’d even reached the porch.

He and Bo’s owner hadn’t gotten off to a good start. He’d introduced himself his first week here with what he’d thought was a reasonable, neighborly wave, and she’d looked at him like he’d wandered off a most-wanted poster. Her arms had been crossed, and she’d frowned, making it clear he wasn’t welcome.

He didn’t fully blame her. He’d seen a lot of bad things in his day, and she was right to be cautious. But that dog of hers . . . the rambunctious labradoodle drove him crazy, and the dog appeared to have free reign of the property.

That wasn’t going to work. Dogs needed boundaries.

Nash needed boundaries.

He climbed the porch steps to the main house—he assumed that’s where she lived—and knocked on the door a little harder than probably necessary.

The voices on the other side went quiet. Then people began speaking again, though he couldn’t understand what they were saying.

Bo barked as if he wanted to be included. The little rascal.

The door opened, and Nash wasted no time starting into his reason for being here. “You’ve got to take control of this⁠—”

He froze.

Bo’s owner stood in front of him, dressed in dark jeans and a colorful flannel. Her dog shot past her into the house, his hind legs working as if he couldn’t wait to get inside and stir up more trouble.

She didn’t react to the dog.

That was the first thing that struck him as wrong. The other times, she’d had her hand on that collar before Bo cleared the doorframe.

Brown hair, chin-length, pushed behind one ear on the left and doing whatever it wanted on the right. No shoes. The flannel buttoned wrong at the bottom.

He’d registered the first week he moved here that she was pretty. He’d also known he wasn’t going to do anything about it.

Right now, her face looked wrecked. She didn’t appear to be crying, at least not anymore. But he could see she had been. Her red eyes and nose made that clear.

Behind her, past her shoulder, Nash saw the other woman who lived here. They’d never met, but he recognized her, and he’d assumed the two women were sisters. She paced near a window with a phone in her hand. A disheveled young man sat at the table with some food in front of him and a blanket around his shoulders. Another woman—one who looked like a slightly younger and wilder version of the other sisters—stood near the window.

“Can I help you?” Bo’s owner quickly swiped beneath her eyes as if more tears might be escaping.

“Your dog got into my—” He couldn’t bring himself to finish.

It was obvious that these women were going through something difficult, and he’d just intruded.

“Again? I’m sorry.” The woman’s apology sounded automatic. “He’s a handful, and he thinks he’s the boss.”

“You keep saying that.” His irritation flickered, just for a second, before compassion pushed it back down. “About the dog, I mean.”

“I know.”

Nash should have left the conversation there. He almost did. But something about the moment caught him by surprise and wouldn’t let go.

He took a breath before asking, “Look, I know it’s not my business, but is everything okay?”

She met his eyes, and for a second she looked as if she were deciding how much to say. Finally, she said, “It’s fine. Just fine. But thanks for asking.”

Nash nodded. But he didn’t believe her.

Nobody in that room had looked at the young man at the table. Not once. Three women in a house with a stranger wrapped in a blanket, and every one of them kept her eyes somewhere else.

But they were watching each other. A glance here. A hesitation there. As if every word had to pass some unspoken test before anyone dared say it aloud.