He chuckles. “Okay. Call me when you’re back in town. I’ll be tied up in court and interviewing for a secretary all week but Judy will be home, ready to welcome you with open arms.”
“God, you’re still interviewing? You need to just pick someone already!” Silas fired his last secretary months ago, and has been struggling to survive on his own since.
“I’m too damn picky,” he admits reluctantly.
“Yes, sir. You are.”
“And Noah? You’re doing the right thing, by helping them move on. It’s what your mother wanted.”
“See you soon.”
The Animal Control van rolls along the sandy lane, keeping pace with the man who walks alongside it. He’s carrying a long pole with a noose-like rope hanging from the end in one hand.
“We got a call about a rabid dog wandering through here?” he hollers to Vilma.
She shrugs.
“Perro?”
She retorts with something in Spanish that I have no hope in hell of understanding, but by her sharp tone, it isn’t pleasant.
Shaking his head, the guy dismisses her and keeps walking toward me. “Seen a rabid dog? It’s beige and scruffy, fifteen pounds. One eye.” Somehow he keeps the toothpick that hangs from the corner of his mouth in place as he talks.
“Rabid dog?”
He smirks. “You know . . . a dog with rabies.”
Dickhead. “I saw him. He’s not rabid, though.” Diseased, likely.
His gaze roves over the various trailers, his disgust plain as day. “Yeah well, I’m tired of coming to this dump every time that woman calls us. We’re catching this asshole today, and my report is gonna say he tried to bite me, and neither him or me are ever comin’ back here again.” He pats the dart gun that hangs from his hip for impact. “Which way did he go?”
I don’t know who keeps calling Animal Control, but I’m suddenly rooting for Gracie’s one-eyed dog. I point down the laneway, in the opposite direction. “He was bookin’ it, so y’all probably won’t catch up to him.”
“Oh, we’ll get him.” He nods toward the trailer. “What happened here?”
“It burned down.”
“How?”
I smile wide. “You know . . . a fire.”
Spearing me with a glare, he and the white van set off down the road, his eyes scanning the shadows, grumbling under his breath.
“Se metió en una pelea con el gato de la se?ora Hubbard de Nuevo,” Vilma calls out.
All I caught from that is “cat” and a woman named “Hubbard.”
She nods toward the upturned wheelbarrow, where I can make out Cyclops’s front paws peeking out beneath it. “You take,” Vilma hisses, pointing to my SUV. “You take.”
“What?” A bark of laughter escapes me.
She waves toward the wheelbarrow urgently. “You take!”
“I can’t. No puedo. We’re staying in a motel.” I saw a guest leaving her room with a Maltese on a leash, so it must be a pet-friendly place, but Cyclops doesn’t exactly fit in the “pet” category. And what the hell am I going to do with a rat-carrying one-eyed dog? In the backseat of my nice, new SUV no less?
“Gracie’s perro!”
“He’s no one’s perro.”
She snorts. “Idiota. iSi note llevas el perro ahorra ella nunca te perdonará!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know what you’re saying.” Except for the idiota part. I’m clear on that.
She struggles to climb out of her chair and down the steps, looking ready to topple over as she hobbles to her fence. “Ellos lo matarán!” She makes a throat-cutting gesture and then hisses, “Ese perro es todo lo que tiene.” Her wrinkled old hands press against her chest. “Gracie love.”
I groan. Maybe I should go and warn Gracie. I check the path. The guy has stopped to talk to a gray-haired woman four doors down, out watering a planter. With a shaky hand, she points back my way. She’s probably telling him that Cyclops was just here, gnawing on a bone beside my truck.
If it’s not one thing with Gracie, it’s another. I feel like I’ve been in danger every turn since meeting her. Granted, a fire and a knife to my stomach are a hell of a lot more serious than a fifteen-pound dog, but acknowledging that doesn’t settle my nerves.
“Okay, okay.” I head over to the back and pop open my tailgate. As soon as the guy’s not looking, I whisper halfheartedly, “Come on, get in!” and cross my fingers that the dog stays put and I can say I tried.
Cyclops darts out from his hiding spot and leaps in without trouble. Awesome.
“Stay back here,” I order, shutting the gate.
I look over in time to see Vilma’s smile of satisfaction. She wanders back to her chair to resume her watch.
CHAPTER 17
Grace
I ignore the voices outside, focusing on the melted tip of the screwdriver as I bring down the hammer for what feels like the hundredth time.
The flimsy lock remains intact. “Dammit!” I toss the tools to the side and simply glare at the small, gunmetal-gray box I found beneath sodden, charred memories and a layer of old carpet, next to a baby milk snake. Exactly where my mom said it would be hiding. It’s about eight inches long by four inches wide, and secured by a small padlock.
I’ve never seen it before.
And there is no way in hell I’m going to hand this over to her without finding out what’s in it first.
Luckily, my grandma’s old metal tools withstood the fire, though the plastic handles are distorted. That’s okay; I can grip the hammer well enough. Brushing the springs of hair off my forehead, I line up the flat metal end and swing, this time putting real force behind it.
The lock falls to the floor with a dull thud.
Satisfaction fills me as I pry open the box with my sooty hands, my stomach tight with anticipation.
CHAPTER 18
Noah
“Come on.” I tap the steering wheel with my fingers at a furious tempo, my gaze darting between the trailer, the laneway, and my rearview mirror. Cyclops has made himself comfortable in my backseat, his tail thumping rhythmically, dozens of dirty footprints all over the leather. The smell of his hot, rank breath and filthy fur makes my nose crinkle.
Toothpick Guy smacks the side of the Animal Control van and begins marching back toward us, his free hand hovering over his dart gun, hard determination splayed all over his face.
“What trouble are you gonna get me into now, Gracie?” I murmur under my breath, cranking my engine and tapping the horn with my fist in warning, hoping she hears it. Does this guy have jurisdiction over an attempted dog rescue?
To my relief, Gracie appears in the doorway then, a box tucked under her arm. She’s covered in soot. It streaks her arms, her shirt, and her cheeks.
She’s beautiful.
I pull up closer and she climbs into the passenger side. Cyclops barks excitedly, as if announcing, “Hey, I’m here!” She eyes him, and then me, but doesn’t say a word, her stony face revealing nothing. This girl would be a proficient poker player.
I do a quick three-point turn and speed away, leaving nothing but a dust cloud for that nut job to shoot. “Some lady called Animal Control.”
“Mrs. Hubbard. Cyclops keeps trying to kill her cat.” She pauses. “Why’d you take him?”
“Your neighbor insisted. She was worried you’d be upset if they got him.”
Gracie lets out a derisive snort. “That cat pees on Vilma’s tomato plants. She just wants Cyclops to live another day so he’ll finally do away with it.”
“So, should I leave him here to—”
“No.” The answer comes quick enough to tell me that Vilma was right, and it’s not just about saving the tomato plants. But Gracie won’t admit to caring.
A metal box sits on her lap, covered in soot. “What’s that?”
“A box.”
I roll my eyes. She’s about as delightful as that Animal Control guy. “What’s in it?”
“Did you call those rehabs?” She smoothly diverts.
“Desert Oaks can take her in tomorrow, but you need to call them to confirm.”
She points to the street ahead. “Turn here. We’re going back to the hospital.”
I make a sharp right, sending Cyclops tumbling against the backseat. I grimace, picturing the scratched leather from his nails.
Just like the fresh, silvery gouges along the side of that box, where a lock might have hung.