Page 24 of Taken Away

Her bare feet hit the floorboards without a sound. She swallowed, throat dry, and crossed the room.

When she cracked the guest room door, Moose was already on his feet.

He wasn’t the heavy, sad lump from earlier. His body was a rigid white line in the dim amber wash of the hallway nightlight. Ears forward. Chest lifted. A low, prehistoric growl rolled up from somewhere deep inside him.

“Moose,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “What is it?”

He didn’t look at her.

He moved.

Silent, deliberate, terrifyingly focused, the dog started down the stairs. His paws made no sound against the runner. Aubrey followed three steps behind, her hand sliding along the smooth banister, the water flask gripped so tightly her fingers ached.

The grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs ticked steadily.

They reached the foyer. Long shadows stretched across the hardwood floor. The kitchen lay to the right, dark and still. The living room opened to the left.

Moose didn’t head for either.

He bypassed the living room entirely and went straight for the heavy oak door that led to the sunroom and back porch.

The glass pane in the side door rattled again.

A rush of blood roared in her ears. She tightened her grip on the flask and crept closer, keeping Moose’s massive body between her and the door.

Through the glass, the back porch was cast in shifting shades of silver and black. Wind moved through the white hydrangeas outside, their heavy heads batting against the railing. The wicker chairs sat empty, facing the dark rows of vines.

Moose pressed his nose against the bottom of the door and inhaled sharply, a long, searching breath.

The change was instantaneous.

The rigid tension left his spine. His ears softened. His tail gave a single, hesitant thump against the floorboards.

Then he let out a soft, high-pitched whine that sounded horribly like a question.

Aubrey edged up beside him, her shoulder grazing his ruff.

There was no one on the porch.

Just the empty chairs and the dark river of vines, the black barn crouched farther down the hill like a silent witness.

The latch on the side door wasn’t broken. She checked it twice, fingers trembling against the cool metal.

Locked.

Whatever had rattled it had been on the outside.

Or the dark beyond the porch had swallowed whatever made the sound.

“There’s nobody there,” Aubrey whispered, though she didn’t quite believe it.

Moose stayed at the door as if he hadn’t heard her. Nose wedged into the crack at the bottom, he breathed in slow and deep, waiting.

Eventually, Moose stepped back, then turned and padded silently past Aubrey toward the stairs.

He didn’t go all the way back to the master.

When she retreated to the guest room and eased the door almost shut, his body lowered once more against the outside of it. She heard the dull, familiar thud of him hitting the floorboards and the soft, weary huff of his breath as he resettled.