Page 41 of How To Plot a Payback

And the house-training situation. Of course I know he’s a baby, and nobody can expect a baby to be potty-trained. But really . . . how many times a day can you clean your rugs and couches before they’re irreparable? It’s a real question. I asked that exact thing of Google when Bernie decided to have a random bout of puppy energy. And scratching.

A really, really intense level of scratching. Allergies perhaps?

It got so bad I ended up reaching out to a vet, and luckily enough they just had a surprise opening in the schedule for puppy shots and a wellness check the following morning. The veterinarian himself even came on the phone after it became apparent who I was. (For the record, no, I don’t like receiving special attention, but in this case, for the sake of Bernie and his scratching, I wasn’t going to argue.) He even graciously offered to have me come to his house for a visit right then—which of course I declined, considering it was seven o’clock at night.

So we settled on my bringing Bernie in first thing today. They explained how easy it would be to drop him by on my way to work and pick him up after. And here I am.

The room is crowded, lined with sleepy pet owners clutching tumblers while cats and dogs rest in little cages beside them or at their feet. Someone is handing off her cat in a crate to a nurse in scrubs, who stands guard between what appears to be the waiting area and the back end, where things happen. Everyone seems terribly uninterested in doing anything but chugging caffeine and checking their phones—everyone, that is, except the man in the corner, who has his neck craned towards the blank wall, staring at it as if his life depends on it.

A large gray dog rests obediently at his feet.

The back of his head looks . . . familiar.

Two cats peek out from a small crate in the chair beside him.

I hear my own voice coming from the telly directly above him. Glance up. Recognize the scene immediately.

Funny. The vet did say he was, in his words, “a huge, huge fan.” Was he playing the show in honor of my visit? Surely not. Surely it was a happy coincidence.

With enormous effort, I half drag, half carry Bernie and get in line, when a second receptionist at the far end sees me and jumps up so quickly her coffee tips over. She slides open the glass partition.

“MS. HUNTER,” she cries at least twice as loud as necessary. “DR. ARMENT WILL SEE YOU NOW.”

She gives me a little wink, clearly quite proud of the secret name we’d exchanged and how well she’d performed. And sure enough, nobody seems to have recognized me or cared, which is more than fine by me. Most are frowning and checking their phones and watches. One man in a flamingo-print shirt is tapping his shoes like the ticks of a broken clock.

I meet the receptionist at the door. She holds it open with one hand and elaborately smooths her skirt with the other.

“So do I just . . . ,” I say, and begin to offer her the leash.

And then just like that, a man appears in the doorway, his fingers stretched out as he holds the door open above her head. His teeth are a blazing white, matching his lab coat and white hair. The blue embroidery above his chest pocket reads DR. ARMENT. He couldn’t possibly smile bigger.

“Serena,” he booms. “Let’s see if we can get that itching sorted out. You come on through and I’ll take good care of you.” He winks.

There’s something just a little askew in the way he speaks. And I can’t help noticing his choice of words. Take care of you, he said. Not the dog. I hate to nitpick, but the word sends off a little warning bell in my mind.

(Yes, I am more sensitive than other people. But then again, yes, I have to be.)

“Sorry, if you don’t mind, I’m just going to run on.” I shake my head, acting as though my memory of last night’s phone call was foggy, just to keep things light. I brandish a smile. “I think the plan we had was that I’d leave him with you and . . . come pick him up later?”

“It’ll just be a minute,” Dr. Arment says reassuringly.

“Yes, but—”

“Five minutes, no more,” he interrupts, tipping his head toward the hallway with that overly bright smile.

I’m not sure why, possibly because he invited me to come for a house visit last night, complete with dog bath, but I feel a bit like he’s opening up the gates of hades and telling me to skip on down to the party.

And then for a moment, I think he’s reaching out for the leash, until his hand settles on my hand.

Which is a hard no.

His thumb slides over the top of my hand, his touch moving in circles and then sliding up past my wrist, sending pinpricks up my arm.

Again, very much unacceptable.

And suddenly there he is, pulling the leash and my wrist toward him and hooking his arm around my shoulder.

It’s all so inappropriate, all so bizarre, that I find I’m inhaling an unearthly amount of men’s cologne mixed with the scent of kibble, my cheek pressed to his chest, before I’ve even had time to blink.