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two
The scarecrow’s grin hadn’t changed in decades. Sunny’s first memory was from age four, tripping on her witch costume and falling headfirst into the dummy’s knees. Back then, it was the jack-o’-lantern smile that made her freeze. Was he happy? Angry? Sad? She couldn’t look away, trapped by what she kind of liked and kind of hated, until a sneeze broke the spell, the hay in her nose saving her from drowning in the thing’s eyes.
Back then, Sunny wondered how Daddy managed to carve the same grin, Halloween after Halloween, into that stupid scarecrow’s pumpkin head. The jack-o’-lantern’s eyes changed, sometimes round, sometimes triangular, the whole bit. Noses were worse, sometimes didn’t even exist. But not that grin. He always had that same secret, spooky smile. Every. Single. Year.
Sunny pulled her jacket tighter around her, suppressing the fickle Virginia November air, which was warm yesterday and had gone frigid today. She made her way toward the front porch, where fake spiderwebs covered the meticulously clipped hedges. The house, a forty-year-old colonial, sat as a well-cared-for backdrop to the old-fashioned decorations. In addition to the scarecrow, Constance had put out hay bales, pumpkins, a tractor with a flat tire, the trailer filled with ghosts that popped against the sky and some coffins containing skeletons and undead creatures. Sunny had never understood the quiet diligence with which her father had reserved for Halloween, when every other holiday mostly passed unnoticed. She understood less her big sister’s insistence on carrying on his ghoulish traditions since he’d passed and she’d inherited the house.
Halloween had come and gone, but Constance had left the decorations up, claiming they were just as good for Thanksgiving.
Sunny let herself in, like she always did. “Cici!” She hung her coat in the foyer and peeked into the kitchen. It was warm and smelled like sweet bread. Constance had set the table with coffee and muffins. She sat near the window, wearing baggy sweatpants and a sweatshirt, leafing through theWashington Post. Sunny sighed. She couldn’t quite get used to the sight of her big sister in those old, oversize clothes. Cici had never been fashionable, but up until last year, she’d worn cute running shorts or leggings and colorful tech tees. Ever since she’d completely given up running her attire had consisted of cheap fare from the men’s department. Her strawberry blond hair, once full of feminine waves, was several different lengths of bad hack job. She’d chopped it off after Josh left, kept chopping it, and ever since then it’d grown out like an awkward teenager, gangly and all different lengths.
Sunny’s perusal settled on Constance’s cheek. “Where’d you get that bruise?”
“Fell off a stair-stepper. Have you ever tried one of those things? It’s just wrong.”
“Those machines are wrong,” Sunny agreed. “In any form. You should get back to running again. Outside. Like you used to.”
“Nah.” Constance waved a careless hand. “I don’t want to run. But I had to do something. It’s hard to explain. I—”
“You saw Josh, didn’t you?”
Constance picked up a muffin and peeled away the paper. “I ran into him at the grocery store yesterday. Didn’t want to tell you because you would’ve made it a thing.” She took a huge bite and worked around the muffin as she spoke. “He told me I looked good, which is impossible. I was wearing...well—” Cici gestured at her lap “—this. And I hadn’t washed my hair in three days. I even had it in a scrunchie.” She touched the back. “What’s left of it. He felt sorry for me. I could see it in his eyes.”
“That was guilt you saw in his eyes. The jerk feels guilty for dumping you.”
“Can’t really blame him.” Constance’s voice dropped. “I’m not exactly the same girl he started dating once upon a time.”
“No, you’re not. You’ve changed with your life. Grown wiser. Better. Like a fine wine.”
Constance stuffed the rest of the muffin in her mouth. “Do I look like a fine wine?” She chewed quietly, then said, “You can’t bullshit someone who practically raised you.”
“I’m not. You’re amazing, and Josh is a douchebag.” Sunny peeled back a piece of her muffin paper and took a small bite. Constance’s muffins were deadly good. If you ate too much, you just wanted more. “You should try my spin class. I don’t think you’d fall off the bike.”
“Yeah?” Constance’s voice had an edge. “So fake bikes are okay but all other machines aren’t?”
Sunny knew she’d walked into that one, but she ignored it. “I dare you to try it. Just once. I swear I’ll go easy on you.”
“Maybe. But even if I do, I’m not going when you’re teaching.”
Sunny rolled her eyes. “Where’s the bitch?”
A tiny smile hooked the corner of Constance’s mouth and her lips parted.
Sunny cut her off. “Don’t.” She shook her head. “That would be too easy, even for you.”
Constance giggled and sipped her coffee. “She’s in the living room.” She tilted her chin in that direction.
“And you just found them? Last night?”
“Was on my way home from working, after about six travel-to massages. Right there on Bright Valley Road.”
“This wasn’t a dog you’d been scoping out? For the rescue?” Even though Constance wouldn’t take part in the “liberating” of abused and neglected dogs—from both Janice Matteri’s puppy mill, and anywhere else they might find—she was constantly giving Sunny tips on this or that dog she’d seen somewhere, or updates on when Janice got a new batch of dogs, which meant the older ones were farmed out to the back, forgotten and neglected.
“Nope.” Constance shook her head. “This dog appeared, literally, out of nowhere. I think she’s a leftover from the pit bull fighting. I was so tired last night I thought I was seeing things.”
Sunny pushed away the remains of her muffin, her stomach turning at the memories of Janice’s brothers’ and cousins’ illegal cruelty, and went to investigate. She saw Fezzi first, sitting up tall like a soldier on his one good front leg, across the room from the mother and her nursing babies. He was a merle—a rare coloring that on Fezzi presented as a striking solid white head and a body of icy gray patched with stark black. She couldn’t imagine why anyone would ever abuse such a beautiful creature.
The mama lay on her side inside the box. Four babies—who didn’t look like purebred pit bulls, which suggested the mother had mated with a stray—suckled away. That was a small litter for a pit bull, but the numbers made sense. Either the mother had more and had lost them or her poor health had kept the numbers low. Plus, she was no spring chicken. Her age could be a factor. “The runt doesn’t look so good,” Sunny said. He was considerably smaller than the other three, skinny, and his suckling wasn’t as active.
