The Real Werewives of Vampire County - By Alexandra Ivy Page 0,84

cat ... or whatever? I couldn’t do that. Then again, how cruel would it be to let her keep thinking he might be alive?

“Show me now, dammit,” Mrs. Wahlen snapped, “or I’ll call the police.”

Maybe sweet wasn’t the right adjective.

“Okay.” I offered a hand to her as Mrs. Wahlen stepped up onto the porch. She waved it away. “I can do it myself.”

“Sorry, ma’am. Didn’t mean to offend.”

She grumbled as she stomped over the threshold. I followed. “Why didn’t you call?”

“I didn’t know who the dog belonged to,” I answered, pushing the door open wider to accommodate her walker. “It was last night.”

“But I put fliers on everyone’s door. On your door. You could have at least called to tell me you’d seen him.”

“I didn’t get a flier.”

The lady, whose mind was definitely still razor-sharp, made a point to look at the rolled-up flier, sitting on top of the mail.

Busted.

“I ... erm, that’s your flier? I didn’t read it yet.” I snapped the rubber band still circling it. “See? It’s still rolled up.” After dropping the rubber-banded tube back on the table, I directed Mrs. Wahlen through the house to the French doors. She sniffed as she glanced around. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know.” I opened a door for her. “But he was outside here last night.”

Mrs. Wahlen slid four fingers into her mouth and produced an eardrum-piercing whistle. “Skippyyyyyy!”

That dog wasn’t going to respond, no matter how loud she whistled.

“Where was my baby when you saw him?” Mrs. Wahlen asked, squinting against the sunlight.

“Right there, on the deck.” I pointed at the spot where I’d left him. I noticed the dark stain on the wood too late.

Leaving her walker behind, Mrs. Wahlen hobbled outside and bent down. She poked at the spot with an arthritic finger. “Is that ... blood?”

“I don’t know.” My heart started thumping loudly in my ears.

Mrs. Wahlen looked at the bat, which was lying next to the stain. “Did someone hurt my Skippy?”

“No.”

“Where is he?” she snapped.

“I didn’t hurt him.” At her glare, I amended my answer. “Well, maybe I hurt him a little. I didn’t know he was a dog.”

Her face turned the shade of a tomato. “How could you not know that? The ears? The tail?”

“It was dark outside. I didn’t see a collar or leash. I thought he was a wild animal.” I pulled up my pant leg. “He bit me.”

“Of course he bit you,” Mrs. Wahlen scoffed. “You were hurting him.”

“No, he bit me first. Then I ... sort of ... accidentally ... erm ...”

“My Skippy wouldn’t attack anyone unprovoked. Now, where is he? Did you take him to a vet?”

“Um, well. I don’t know where he is. When I came inside to find a box or something to put him in—so I could take him to a vet, of course—another animal, a bigger one, grabbed him ...”

The woman’s eyes widened. Her tomato-red face went instantly white. Afraid she was about to pass out, I grabbed her arm, but she yanked it away. “Don’t touch me, you murderer!” Mrs. Wahlen stomped—as hard as a hundred-year-old woman could—back inside, reclaimed her walker, and headed out the front door. Once she was safely down the porch steps, she turned and shook an arthritic finger at me. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

Nifty. I was being sued. For killing a dog that had attacked me. With any luck, the attorney would tell her to drop it and that would be the end of that. But still, even if there was no lawsuit, my conscience was going to nag me for years about this one. I donate money to the Humane Society every year. Animal cruelty is my thing. My cause.

“I’ll look for his call then,” I said, thinking I might offer to pay a settlement if I was contacted by a lawyer. I didn’t have a lot of money in the bank, and I didn’t have a full-time job, but I had sold my apartment for a tidy profit. I would sleep better at night if I donated some of that cash to Mrs. Wahlen’s pet replacement fund. “One question, though. Was Skippy up-to-date on all his shots?”

The woman leered at me then stormed away.

“I’ll take that as a no?”

Someone was screaming. Outside. The sound was shrill. Eardrum-splitting. I thought someone might be dying. I pictured severed limbs, spurting blood. So, of course, I went racing outside to see.

It wasn’t what I imagined.

There were no severed limbs. No spurting blood. Just two little people—imagine