pressed the doorbell. “Always knock, until you’re on a regular schedule and sure someone’s not home,” Maya had told me as we’d walked Wendell. “People get funny about you walking into their house, even if they’ve hired you to do just that.”
I didn’t hear anything, so I waited another second before I started trying the keys. There were three on the ring, but as soon as I tried the top lock, the door opened easily. I stepped inside, waiting to hear the sound of barking, a dog running down the hall toward me. I closed the door, then waited another second, but there was only silence. Maya had so prepared me for dogs being protective of their houses that it was a little disconcerting to be ignored.
“Hello?” I called into the hallway. My voice echoed back to me, and I took another step inside. “I’m, um, from Dave and Maya’s Pet Care,” I called, suddenly unsure if I should be calling out for a dog or a human. “Who’s ready to go on a walk?” I said in my best dog-excitement voice. I was about to call the dog, but stopped when I realized I didn’t know his name. I reached for my phone, but hesitated. I knew I couldn’t keep texting Maya for every little thing or she was going to regret ever hiring me.
I walked down the hall, still expecting that any second now I’d see or hear the dog I was there to walk. There were framed pictures evenly spaced down the hallway, most showing a couple, a man and a woman who looked like they were in their fifties. Most of the pictures looked professionally taken and framed, the couple usually in black-and-white, in formal wear or more casual, with the beach in the background. I paused briefly in front of what looked like a framed book cover—but it looked old, like from the thirties. The Most of Jeeves and Wooster, the cover read, and I looked at it for a moment longer before continuing on.
I walked to the end of the hallway, gripping the leash, still a little disconcerted that I hadn’t heard or seen a dog—or even spotted any dog stuff—anywhere. For a moment I panicked, worried I was in the wrong house. But then my rational brain took over, pointing out that if I was in the wrong house, the key wouldn’t have worked to let me in. I was about to call out again, but stopped, my train of thought temporarily derailed as I took in what was in front of me.
Books were everywhere. Not in haphazard piles—there was absolutely nothing about this place that seemed haphazard—but there were floor-to-ceiling built-ins on all sides of this very large room, and they were absolutely crammed with books. It was the kind of room—big couches, comfy chairs—that you would expect a TV in, but I didn’t see one anywhere. All I could see were books.
“Hello?” I could hear a voice, a hesitant one. It sounded like a guy’s, and like it was in the same room as me. I whirled around once, then twice, trying to figure out what was going on, until I realized that there was an intercom covered in the same taupe paint as the walls.
“Hi!” I said, walking toward the intercom, then pausing in front of it. Had the guy heard me? I tentatively pushed the talk button. “Hi,” I said again, probably louder than I needed to, if this was working. “I’m the dog walker? I’m here to walk . . . your dog,” I finished, wishing once again that I knew the dog’s name and hoping that Bri had been alone in her opinion that this sounded somehow dirty.
“Oh, right,” the voice said. It sounded somehow familiar, but maybe everyone’s voice started to sound the same when coming through an intercom. “We’ll be right there. Meet you in the kitchen.”
I heard a click that I assumed meant the guy was gone before I could ask where the kitchen was. But it didn’t take long to find it—it was next to the book room, taking up most of the back of the house, with big picture windows that looked out onto the backyard—an expanse of green with a large pool right in the middle. The kitchen was perfectly neat, like maybe nobody had ever cooked in there. But in keeping with the theme of the house, there were also piles of books in here, brightly colored cookbooks lining packed