be a little more vague?”
“I’m trying to solve a murder.” Soon as the words are out of her mouth she knows she shouldn’t have said it like that because his eyes light up and he thinks she’s talking about Chris. “Not Chris. A dog.”
The fire in his eyes dims, vanquished by her swift admission. “A dog murder. Is that a thing?”
“I dunno. I guess. Remember Chomp-Chomp?”
Now the fire’s truly gone as Shane’s brow darkens—his eyes smoldering black briquettes. Of course he remembers Chomp-Chomp. Steven was one of the three bullies that used to torment Shane.
“Him?”
“He helped us before.”
“I know, but…” Shane shakes his head. “Fine. Whatever. Go on.”
“His cousin, Jenny, her dog was… tortured. Which I guess was bad enough to kill it.” Behind her eyes flash images from the folder. Her breath catches in her chest like on a blustery winter day even though the air is warm and sticky. “So she hired me to do this. And I thought maybe you might could help.”
“Me.”
“Yeah.”
“But you’re still not looking into Chris’ murder.”
“Well, no. I… I don’t know. This pays. I need money, our house—“
“So it’s all about money. That why you helped Chris the first time? Because he paid?”
She sucks air between her teeth. “Now, c’mon. Don’t be that way. It’s not like that. This girl… this dog…”
“They killed Chris and you don’t want to do anything about it.”
“Don’t you dare say that. I did something already and it was the wrong thing.” Her nostrils flare. Feels her pulse in her wrist, her neck, the back of her legs. “Now I’m doing something different. Maybe trying to help someone instead of hurt ‘em.”
“You don’t even care that he’s dead.”
Pow. A hand—her hand, a hand she seems to barely control—slaps Shane hard across the cheek with a stinging smack. He recoils, touching the struck cheek with the gingerness one might use to touch a wounded bird. Eyes wide, he looks around like this is some kind of joke, like someone’s going to be here to help him. The panic on his face kills her. Because she made that panic happen. She gave it life.
“Shane—“
He fumbles with his bike, almost trips over it. She says his name again, reaching out and putting her hand on his tire to help him—but he pulls the bike away.
“I’ll handle this on my own,” he says. Way his voice shakes, she thinks he might cry.
“Please, Shane, I’m sorry as hell that I did that—“
But he’s gone. Already his pudgy legs spinning, the bike bumping as it jumps off of the sidewalk. She hears him for a little while even after she can’t see him. Spokes whispering. Bike chains like bee wings.
She kicks the curb with her foot. Pain shoots up through her calf.
“Shit!” she hisses. “Shit.”
* * *
Past midnight in Gallows Hill. Atlanta—alone and feeling it—hides behind a well-manicured boxwood shrub ringing a tennis and basketball court. Her legs are cramped and her back feels like it’s on fire but she makes no effort to move, in part because she’s afraid that once she does she won’t want to hunker back down again, and in part because she thinks she just plain deserves the pain.
The neighborhood is still. What’s not still is Atlanta’s mind. Filled with thoughts locking antlers like bucks, clashing and crashing in some competition over who gets to be the worst, the meanest, the baddest motherfucking thought in the forest. Guilt over Chris. Shame over Shane. Anger at her mother. A sudden spike of rage at the richie-riches who live here, who have too much. Flashes of white fur and red blood. Punctuated by the imagined sound of the Labrador puppy screaming in the night as someone steals it away.
That’s when she realizes she’s doing this wrong. Waiting here in the middle of nowhere hoping… what? Hoping that some pesky dog thieves and canine tormentors will come winging by on a lark?
She needs to go find a dog. A dog left outside acting as an irresistible lure.
Dog thieves will go after dogs. Seems obvious, now. So obvious in fact a new mean-bad-thought comes slinking into her head like an alleycat—You’re fucking stupid, Atlanta Burns, stupid as a fence post but not nearly as useful.
She emerges from her hiding spot, knees popping and back muscles burning brighter as they stretch.
It’s then that Atlanta goes on the hunt. Wandering the streets of Gallows Hill for the next hour. Aimless and restless. And worse, unable to find a single dog. Maybe the folks here know