She shut her eyes, sank back into her cushions. "Just tell her."
Seeing she wanted to be alone—basically had dismissed him— Garvin nodded and went.
Annie was waiting for him in front of the vet's. She climbed into the front seat almost before he'd come to a stop. Her eyes didn't meet his. "He should be okay," she said. "The vet stitched him up and gave him a shot. She wants to keep him overnight, maybe a little longer." She paused, her lips pressed together. "He was lucky."
Garvin touched her arm. "Annie. Look at me."
It took a few seconds, but when he didn't remove his hand, didn't drive her back to Russian Hill, finally she acquiesced. Her eyes were huge, set against her pale cheeks and the dark smudges under her lashes and at the corners from where her makeup had run. She'd been crying. That was why she hadn't looked at him. She hadn't wanted him to know.
He wiped a tear stain with his thumb. "It's been a hell of a day, Annie. I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault."
His words to Sarah, spoken back to him. Maybe they were all trying to place blame—accept blame—where there was none. Maybe it made them feel a sense of control where they had none.
"I'm okay," she said.
"Why the hell should you be okay? Your apartment was broken into, your dog nearly killed—"
"I don't have any other choice." Her voice was stiff, but not harsh. "I have to be okay. Now I need to call the police. Can we go?"
He leaned over and kissed her gently. "We can go."
Annie agreed to spend the night at Garvin's house. Under the circumstances, it made the most sense. With her bedroom window broken, her apartment wasn't a serious option. Sarah's wasn't an option at all. Without a full explanation, for which Annie was too tired and confused, Zoe's wasn't an option, either. And she didn't even consider a hotel.
She explained all this to Garvin in a clinical fashion as he drove up the winding roads to his house. He listened skeptically, because that was his nature, and with no indication he believed one word she said. But she gave him credit for not telling her she was kidding herself.
Which, of course, she was. She'd agreed to spend the night at his house because she wanted to be with him. It was that simple, and that devastating.
And she suspected he knew the truth.
The minute they arrived at his house, she called the vet from the telephone in the kitchen while Garvin got out a bottle of brandy. The assistant on duty said Otto was sleeping comfortably.
Annie sank into a chair at a round table in the breakfast nook. French doors opened out onto the far end of the deck that spanned the length of the house, the San Francisco skyline lit up across the dark bay. The kitchen was airy and functional, done in a dark wood. Garvin got down two glasses and filled them. He'd pulled off his suit coat and ripped off his tie, but there were stains on his white shirt from where he'd carried Otto.
He brought the brandy to the table, pushed a glass in front of her, and raised his. "To Otto."
Annie's eyes brimmed with tears. "To Otto," she said, and they clinked glasses.
Garvin remained on his feet. The brandy was smooth, just a sip enough to steady the nerves. The house was virtually silent, restful. She tried to let the quiet, the sense of space around her, ease her preoccupation with the events of the day. Images skittered through her mind. Snippets of conversation. Threats. Fears. She kept seeing herself coming upon Otto, thinking he was dead and it was all her fault, and now she was truly alone.
"Crying over a dog." She cleared her throat, sipped more brandy. "Gran would be disgusted."
"Would she be?"
"Gran wasn't one for self-pity, and she had a pragmatic attitude toward animals."
Garvin smiled. "Reminds me of my grandmother on my mother's side. She remembers wringing a chicken's neck in the morning and having him for dinner that evening. She grew up in the country, obviously. But Otto's a pet—"
"He's still a dog."
"You can't form an attachment to a dog?"
"You can, but it's a dog attachment, not a people attachment. Gran wouldn't have me falling apart over a dog getting hit on the head."
"But this is Otto," Garvin said. "He's all you have left of your old life. He's a living, breathing connection to your past."
Annie scowled. "When did you get to be a shrink?"
He was unperturbed. "I've noticed you get gruff whenever I strike a nerve. Drink your brandy."
"I am." She took another sip, having already duly noted it wasn't rotgut brandy. Emotions swirled around her, through her. She made no attempt to sort them out. Having Garvin hovering over her only added to the mix. "I wonder if he saw who hit him."
"Otto?"
"Yes, Otto. He's a very intelligent dog, at least about things like that. If he saw or even smelled who hit him, he'll remember— unless his wound has scrambled his memory."