Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“You don’t reply to my messages anymore either.” Sam had been thirteen or fourteen the year I’d been eighteen. He’d had a young teen’s voice and had always been popping up where I least wanted him. Some things apparently never changed. But other things were radically different, like Sam’s melodic, radio-worthy voice having no trace of his bouncy teen mannerisms. And his adult voice was far harder to dismiss, the tone used by teachers everywhere, a scolding that wasn’t easily ducked. “From what I hear, I’m not alone in getting ghosted. Should I call Holden or Monroe for you?”
“God, no.” I couldn’t have either of my oldest friends see me like this. And if I couldn’t explain to myself why I was here, no way would I be able to answer the questions of two professional investigators. “And I…um…had to change numbers recently. Long story.” I waved a hand. “But I did get your messages before that. I might have fallen behind on liking a few memes, but…”
“A few.” Sam sighed, dog wriggling in his arms. About a year ago, messages had started appearing. First from Monroe and Holden, who were championing the re-opening of my mother’s cold case, then from Sam, the kid from my past who’d always wanted to be the sidekick to our little group. Unlike Monroe and Holden, who wanted answers, Sam apparently wanted nothing more than to send me positive-thinking memes and funny cats. And he’d never know, but there were days—hell, weeks—where he’d been my only reason to crack a smile.
“Hey.” I pointed at the dog. In all the memes, and there had likely been dozens, it was always cats doing silly things, never dogs. “Aren’t you a cat person?”
Ka-boom. Another firework went off, and the dog leaped from Sam’s arms to my lap.
“I am. Trust me that Delilah is not going to be amused, but I found this girl all alone and scared. I need to check my phone. Safe Harbor has an app now for used furniture, yard sales, and things like lost pets.”
“This dog won’t be on the app.” Narrowing my eyes, I peered at the dog’s ratty collar, almost hidden by her dense fur. The silver tag had been attacked with some sort of metal implement, the name and contact info scratched out. “Someone dumped her on purpose.”
“In Safe Harbor?” Sam’s frown deepened. “I found her in a nice neighborhood, over by Holden’s house.”
“Yes, Sam, in Safe Harbor.” I mocked his horror. “Hard to imagine, but bad things happen here too.”
“I know they do.” Sam had a piercing gaze, seeing so much more than I wanted, even in the dark. And in his shrewd expression, I saw the last year play out—my mom’s cold case getting resurrected, providing all the proof anyone needed that bad things happened in Safe Harbor. Even perfect small towns weren’t immune from serial killers. Hell, I was undoubtedly now one of those terrible occurrences, the prodigal son who couldn’t even make his own mother’s memorial.
The shame. I could hear the pearl-clutchers. How much louder would they be if everyone here knew the truth? It was bound to come out. Only a matter of time. The heavy sense of doom that had plagued me for days intensified. No way out.
Looking away, I returned to the dog’s collar. “No phone number. No address. Can’t even make out the name anymore.”
“Luckily, my understanding is that dogs are quick to learn new names. The animal shelter should be open tomorrow, and hopefully, she finds a new family and new name fast.” Sam’s tone was pragmatic, but something in his offhand tone pissed me off.
“So, what? She gets a place to stay for the night, then she’s someone else’s problem to solve?” I pet the dog’s shuddering head. I wasn’t being fair. Sam could have left the beast where he’d found her, but my rant kept gathering steam. “What if she’s sick? Injured? Old? And she stinks. What if the shelter doesn’t have time to make her presentable? Not all dogs get adopted, you know.” My voice cracked on the word adopted.
“I do know a thing or two about strays,” Sam said mildly. And oh, that was right, he ran some sort of charity for at-risk youth, putting them to work in a nonprofit coffee shop. Crouching, he lifted the quaking dog back off my lap. “It’s okay, girl. The fireworks will be over soon. Not everyone likes the Fourth of July.”
“I used to love it,” I blurted. “Big stack of fireworks, Mom’s potato salad, friends over for a big barbeque. Red-white-and-blue bunting on the front porch. Twinkling lights out on the back deck.”
“I remember.” Still kneeling, he petted the dog before standing and studying me closely. Too closely. “Come inside, Worth. Let’s get your princess cleaned up and see what we’re dealing with here.”