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That old beagle might fool everyone else, but Hobbs knew when he was being judged. Humphrey lay on his dog bed, pretending to be aloof, hiding behind the cataracts in his eyes. His gaze followed Hobbs across the gym as he took his personal training client, Serena, from the rack to the floor and back again, running her through a variety of gymnastics and plyometrics over the course of an hour.
“Keep it up!” Hobbs shouted over the music. “Stand all the way up on that box! No bent knees!”
Serena locked out her knees after her feet landed, her glutes tightening with the effort. She paused at the top, sucking air, a sheen of sweat glistening over her forehead, her ponytail ragged from all the running, jumping and swinging on the rig.
Stop judging, Hobbs mentally willed Humphrey.I can’t help it if she wore tiny little shorts for her personal training session. I’m not staring. I’m justnotnot looking.
The little beagle huffed out his jowls and settled his head between his paws, but his eyes stayed open, bright and alert.
“C’mon!” Hobbs shouted. “You’ve got thirty seconds left! Open the tank and give it all you got!”
Serena stepped up her pace, racing from the box to the rig and flinging herself into her final set of toes-to-bars attempts.
“Three...two...one...time!” Hobbs yelled.
Serena sank to the floor, on her back, forearm over her eyes, gasping for air. Hobbs took down the music a few notches. He left ZZ Top’s “Legs” playing at a low hum—turning off such a classic would be a crime—and entered notes for Serena’s workout on his spreadsheet. She had a ninety-day block of private lessons scheduled, either in the early morning before her shift in DC, where she worked for one federal agency or another, or on Saturday afternoon, like today.
On his way back to see if she’d recovered, Hobbs stopped by Humphrey’s bed, squatted down and reached out slowly, hoping today would be the day that Rhett’s old rescue beagle would let someone outside his tight-knit circle pet him.
Humphrey got a glint in his rheumy eyes and reared back, away from Hobbs’s thick fingers.
“Not today, huh?” Hobbs shrugged. “You don’t know what you’re missing, old boy. My petting game is pretty on point.”
“That so?”
Hobbs looked over his shoulder to see Serena standing there, the shine mopped from her face and a smile on her lips. She was a tall woman, could look Hobbs dead in the eye when he rose to his feet, and had the confidence of someone who’d been told she was beautiful all her life. She was pretty enough, with thick brown hair and dark, warm eyes. Definitely hot, the way she moved like she knew everyone was watching and didn’t really care, even though she enjoyed the attention. But she was a little too into herself to be attractive to Hobbs, the way she made everything about her, from her job to her personal training to the extracurricular activities she talked about all the time, the hiking and the wine tastings and the nightclubbing with girlfriends. Hobbs got the feeling that her world had never had to revolve around anyone but herself, which was fine. That simplified things, and Hobbs definitely liked to keep things simple.
“I’d like to hear more about this petting game,” Serena continued, with no attempt to disguise her flirting. “Will you be at the Halloween party tonight?”
“It’s required.” Hobbs had been wondering if Serena chose him for one-on-one training because he was the main PT guy or if she’d had ulterior motives. Looked like she wasn’t making much of a secret of her interest, which Hobbs had picked up on during a few of the regular class sessions. “So, yes, I’ll be there.”
“Great.” Serena took a sip from her water bottle. Hot pink and covered in flowers. “See you then.” With a grin, she was gone.
Hobbs figured he should be more excited about that prospect. Serena was single, in her early thirties, successful, fit, no kids. He should be all over that. Instead, he kept glancing at his phone, his mood diving down a notch every time there was a new notification.
Victor again.
Hobbs’s older brother had tried to call him no less than a dozen times since last night. Hobbs had ignored each one. A sane person would get the hint, give up and send a text message. Or give up altogether. Not Victor. Victor was still the same kid who’d found a way to bully Hobbs out of his stocking chocolate every single Christmas. They’d get a net baggie full of chocolate coins in gold foil and Victor would pig all his down in one day. Hobbs, more patient, would ration his out. After that, the game was on. Victor came after Hobbs with bets, dares, deals, anything to get his hands on Hobbs’s coins. No matter how hard he tried to dodge him, Victor found a way and always got the larger share of his little brother’s chocolate before the week was out.
“Not going to work anymore,” Hobbs said, and clicked off his phone. “You can call till the cows come home and I’m not going to answer it.”
His next client walked through the door at that moment, saving him from feeling guilty. Jim was a powerlifter, training to compete in the next meet in January. This would be a much different session than the one with Serena. Jim was quiet and methodical and didn’t talk much. Hobbs switched the music from Jock Jams to thrash metal and got Jim set up for bench press and related strength exercises. They exchanged hellos and slipped right into the work, the hour progressing steadily. By the time they were done, Hobbs had forgotten all about Victor and the phone calls. That was, until he packed everything up and headed home for dinner. He plugged his phone into his car, and when the screen lit up he saw there was a new text waiting. From Victor.
Hobbs sighed and tried to decide whether to look at it now or after he ate. It wasn’t like Victor’s attempts to get in touch with him, when the most they ever did was exchange pleasantries over the holidays, could be good. So Hobbs could either ruin his dinner anticipating the message or ruin his dinner with whatever he read once he opened the text. Hobbs was a rip-the-bandage-off kind of guy, so he clicked the text open.
Call me. It’s about Pops.
Yep. Dinner was ruined.
The drops of orange light were like little candle flames bursting inside the cold October air. The tree’s giant dome would otherwise have been cloaked in nightfall, but Tabitha spied it from the road, her eye caught as soon as she strode up the walk. She peered inside the overhang of pendulous branches, spellbound by what looked like a million pulsing firefly hearts. A cat skeleton climbed the trunk and a human one hung from the thicker apex of an inner branch. Below them both, on the ground, was a dog skeleton, jaw unhinged in a silent bark. A ghoul, hung from a higher branch, flitted in the breeze.
“Trick or treat.”
Tabitha turned to the voice—a young girl in shredded clothes and face paint. She clasped a bulging pillowcase. Tabitha parted her lips to speak.
“A doggy!” The girl’s face split into a smile as she spied Trinity, calm, patiently waiting out Tabitha’s obsession with the tree, sitting on the lawn near her ruby-red slippers. “Is she supposed to be Toto?” The girl looked Tabitha up and down, taking in the shoes and the blue-and-white gingham dress.
