the hood. “Be careful! He’s—”
“Such a good boy,” Dan purred at the dog, rubbing his head and ears. “What a good boy you are.” He craned his head up to Chip. “How old is he?”
“Just over two, sir,” Chip said.
“Practically still a baby,” Dan replied, turning his attention back to the docile dog.
To Bree’s horror, Dan began to kneel. “I wouldn’t—”
But there he was, staring Russell in the face, both of them with slaphappy smiles. Her stepfather moved to rub his neck. The dog tilted his head and leaned into the rubbing. No drool to be seen anywhere.
“This can’t be the dog you were telling us about, can it?” Bree’s mother murmured. “I mean, he’s large, I’ll grant you, but he seems like nothing but a harmless teddy bear.”
There the both of them were, beaming at Russell as if they had driven two hours east just to visit him. A dog that was evil.
Bree glared.
At the dog.
Then at the owner of the dog.
“So well-mannered,” her mother added, and Bree slammed the passenger door shut.
“Ooookay then,” Bree said, holding a cardboard box full of gift bags. The metallic tissue paper flapped at her face. “Let’s take the party inside, shall we?”
Nobody moved. Her stepfather was starting some conversation with Chip about dog training while her mother slipped over to the dog to give him a rubdown too.
“Boiled eggs? You’re kidding. Did you hear that, Ginny? He says he uses boiled eggs to get him to roll over.”
“And the occasional Slim Jim,” Chip added. He floated a bright smile her direction. “Russ,” Chip said in a commanding tone, “sit.”
Yeah, right. This was going to be one of those moments when a dog owner gave an optimistic command to his dog and made you watch for fifteen minutes while the dog started licking itself and the owner grew more and more agitated and started saying, “Oh, come on, Skipper, you were just doing it yesterday. I don’t know why you are being shy. Paw, Skipper. Give. Me. Your. Pawwww.”
Russell squatted on his hind legs.
Bree’s jaw dropped.
“Good boy.” Chip rubbed his ears while her parents gave an amused smile. “Now. Roll over.”
Immediately the dog rolled over. It stood again, shaking out its coat and looking at him eagerly for the next command. Was it just her imagination, or was the dog’s coat shinier?
“Now watch this,” Chip said to her parents with a wink. He pointed to the dog. “Pow.”
Bree almost dropped the box as the dog staggered back three feet and crumpled.
Bree’s mother clapped and laughed. “How marvelous! Bree, honey, have you seen him do this?”
“No, Mom. Shockingly enough, I have not.”
Chip’s eyes flickered to Bree and back to her parents. His tone lowered confidentially. “Want to see the best one? I taught him this this week.”
Her parents were nodding before he finished his question.
“Russell, go find Favorite.”
Without hesitation, Russell jumped up and moved around the car. He landed squarely on the driveway and looked at Bree. He started barking.
“His favorite what?” Dan was saying, looking past her with a childlike smile. “His favorite chickens?”
“No, his favorite person.” Chip stretched out his hand with a nod. “Your daughter.”
An eruption of laughter encircled them. Bree’s mother looked like she was about to have tears in her eyes. “How absolutely precious, Bree. You’re his favorite.”
“I’m very aware,” Bree said, her voice flat. She clutched the box, staring at the three of them like they were part of his family, not hers. “Well, I’m going inside now . . .”
“Is that a new bathroom going in, I see?” her stepfather said, peering at the bed of Chip’s truck. “Taking down walls, putting in new vanities”—he fingered an orange wire formerly tucked beneath an old medicine cabinet—“looks like you’ve even got phone lines you’re pulling out of the ground. Now that’s dedication to the house and home if nothing else.”
Halfway to her porch, Bree stopped.
Turned.
“Phone line?” she said, glancing from the line in the dirt at Russell’s feet to the truck bed. “You . . . dug up . . . a phone line?”
“Well, sometimes they do get in the way of things,” Dan said, as though Chip needed the defense. “Although I suspect we have more than old phone lines zigzagged underneath our house.” He chuckled as he looked at Chip.
Underneath that chiseled five-o’clock shadow lining his jaw, she could see a smile that was tight. Too tight.
Chip cleared his throat. “Yes, well, you can never be too careful about phone lines.”
Bree narrowed her eyes. That evil,