for nothing.”
He bowed at the waist. “Thank you.”
I thought for a moment. “I don’t want a dog,” I said, almost whining. “And you can’t take her. You’re never home.”
Crawford looked at me with his sad face. “You could always give her to a shelter.”
I looked at Trixie, who seemed to be wearing the same sad face that Crawford was. “I don’t want a dog,” I said again, this time with less whining but with much less conviction. Crawford and Trixie seemed to sense my weakening resolve and continued to look at me with their pathetic faces. “Okay. She can stay. Until I track them down.”
Crawford sighed, relieved. “This will be great for you. Dogs are wonderful. And Trixie seems like she’s very special.”
I sat at the kitchen table, contemplating the decision I had just made. I thought about Jackson and Terri. “We have to find out where they went,” I said. Although I never talked to either of them unless I had to, it seemed odd to me that they had left without telling me. There had to be more to this story than met the eye.
Chapter 19
When I was a child, my parents, concerned that I was an only child, bought me a dog. “Dog” actually was a dubious characterization: Coco was five pounds, furry, and looked like a cat. But my father swore that she was a teacup Yorkshire terrier and really a dog. I had Coco until I left for college. She wasn’t there when I returned for my first Thanksgiving break, having succumbed to a rare blood disease that had set my mother back three thousand dollars.
Coco wasn’t a ton of work for me; she was walked four times a day by either my father or mother. Because in addition to being an only child, I was spoiled rotten and not expected to have to do any heavy lifting, so to speak. So, when I awoke the next morning, Crawford in bed beside me, snoring like a buzz saw, and Trixie licking my face, I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. After a few moments of staring into Trixie’s sad eyes, it occurred to me that she probably had to go out.
I stuck my foot into Crawford’s side, interrupting a long, wheezing snore. He sat up, grabbed for the gun on the nightstand, and looked around. “What?”
“I think the dog has to go out,” I said, touching the gauze on my graze. Again, it was dry, a good sign. I yawned. “Can you take her?”
He lay back down and put his hand to his heart. “I forgot where I was for a minute.”
“You don’t usually wake up with someone sticking their foot into your side?”
He shook his head and rolled over onto his side. “I don’t usually wake up with someone next to me at all.”
That’s what I wanted to hear.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
I sat up and took stock. “Not bad. I think I have a Vicodin hangover, but other than that, I’m good.”
“Any more nightmares?” he asked, rolling onto his side and putting an arm over my waist.
“Nightmares?”
“You don’t remember?”
I shook my head.
“You woke me in the middle of the night because you thought Ray was downstairs. You heard noises. It was Trixie,” he explained. “I don’t think Trixie’s ever been told to put her hands in the air.”
I pondered that. Time to lay off the Vicodin. The pain had subsided to a dull ache and I had to pretend, at least, to be a little bit tough and deal with whatever pain the wound would deliver. The crying, fainting, and general kvetching had to be getting on Crawford’s nerves. Hell, I was starting to annoy myself.
“We have to figure out where Terri and Jackson went and how I ended up with this dog,” I said.
Crawford moaned. “Can we eat breakfast first?”
I rolled over and looked at him. “Of course we can.” Did he remember who he was talking to? “I just think this whole situation is extremely odd and I want to get to the bottom of it.”
He sat up and looked at the gauze on my arm. “Looking good.” He threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood after a minute, naked except for a baggy pair of red plaid boxer shorts. Every other time he had slept over, he had slept in his clothes. I guess we were making progress.
“Nice boxers, Crawford,” I commented. I lifted the comforter and was relieved to find that I was fully