When he finally locked the station for the night, he decided to give himself and the dog a break and drove home in the cruiser.

“You’re on parole,” Reed told him as he led the dog into the house. “Crapping and pissing in the house, chewing on anything but what I give you violates the terms of your parole. Take that seriously.”

The dog sniffed around a little in the bedroom, always with one eye cocked at Reed as Reed changed into his most ragged sweatpants, an old sweatshirt, and a pair of sneakers he hadn’t gotten around to tossing out.

Because, of the two of them, Reed knew that what came next would be messy.

He led the dog back outside, got the hose, the shampoo. And spent the first ten minutes of the project wrestling a wet dog who whined and shook and tried to escape the nightmare of soap and water.

The dog finally submitted, just staring at Reed with eyes that spoke of the pain of betrayal.

They were both soaked and not particularly happy with each other when Simone drove up.

“Better keep back. We’re a mess.”

“Suzanna Dorsey told Hildy who told CiCi you’d taken in a stray dog. I see the grapevine rings true yet again.”

“He’s on parole.” Reed ruthlessly ran the hose over the dog to wash off the shampoo and dead fleas. “And right now skirting close to the edge.”

“He has a sweet face.”

“Yeah, everybody says so. He’s also flea-bitten and has worms.”

“Abused, Suzanna said.”

“Yeah. That, too.”

Simone walked over to sit on the steps because the dog watched her as if she might throw a rock at his head. “I’m supposed to take a picture of him and text it to CiCi.”

“You should wait until he’s more presentable.”

“He’s a pretty color, sort of like a chestnut horse.”

“Apparently he’s got some coonhound in him, whatever that is.”

“Do you like dogs?”

“Sure. We had one when I was a kid. My sister named it Frisky before my brother and I could veto. She was a good dog. We lost her right before I left for college.” He glanced over. “How about you?”

“We couldn’t have a dog—or cat. My mother’s allergic. Or says she is. I never really believed her. But, yes, I like dogs. Are you keeping him?”

“I don’t know. I’m not here most of the time. Doc said they’d find him a home. He’d probably be better off, once he gets used to being around people who don’t smack him around.”

He let go of the dog to grab one of the old towels he hadn’t gotten around to tossing out—and the dog used the opportunity to shake off the water. It flew up, out, and all over Reed.

At Simone’s laugh, Reed used the towel on his own face. “Now I need a damn shower.”

“Looks like you just got one.”

“Har.” He began rubbing the dog briskly with the towel. “How do ya like that?”

The dog responded by wagging its tail and licking Reed’s face.

“Sure, sure, now we’re buddies.”

Simone watched the man rub the dog and grin while the dog wagged and licked his face.

Though she knew she’d been slipping and sliding, in that moment, with that image, she fell in love.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

When Patricia decided she wanted to document her story, professionally, only one person fit the bill. And really, Seleena McMullen had been right there at the DownEast, had ridden the wave of the videos she’d taken of that idiot Paulson.

Who better?

Besides, Patricia felt Seleena had treated her with some respect when she’d done that anniversary interview. She even liked the way she’d looked and sounded; though, of course, she’d put on that poor, shy, sad-me face.

This would be different. This would be real. And when this hit cable and the Internet, people would finally know who had the damn brains, who had some damn grievances.

Patricia even wrote up a kind of script and practiced. In so doing, she was so impressed by her own skills she decided that when she settled down to the good life in Florida, she’d write a screenplay on her life and times.

When she had it set, when she had everything in place, when she believed everything was perfect, she made contact.

“This is Seleena.”

“Don’t hang up,” Patricia whispered in a shaky voice. “Don’t call the police.”

“Who is this?”

“Please, I have to talk to somebody. I’m so scared!”

“If you want to talk to me, I need a name.”

“It’s—it’s Patricia. Patricia Hobart. Please, don’t call the police!”

“‘Patricia Hobart’?” Doubt dripped. “Prove it.”

“You came into the—you called it the green room—before they took me out for the anniversary report last July. You sat with me and you said if I ever remembered anything about my brother, any little thing I hadn’t told the police, I should call this number. I could tell you.”

“I’m here for you, Patricia.” Now excitement rang clear. “I’m glad you called me.”

Patricia heard the rustling, imagined McMullen grabbing a recorder, a notebook. And smiled. “I don’t know what to do!”

“Tell me where you are. The FBI’s looking for you. And a lot of cops.”

“It’s not like they say, none of it, none of it. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t understand. I’ve been running, but I’m scared all the time. I’m going to turn myself in, but I need to talk to somebody first. I need to talk to somebody who’ll listen and tell the truth.”

She added broken sobs. “You don’t know, you don’t know what they did to me.”

“Who?”

“My grandparents. Oh God, I need to tell someone. I can’t keep running, but nobody will believe me.”

“You can tell me. I believe you. What did they do to you?”

“No, no, not like this. In person. I need you to record everything so it’s, like, on the record. You can’t tell anyone or they’ll kill me. I know it. Maybe I should just kill myself and end it.”

“You don’t want to do that, Patricia. You need to tell your story. I’ll help you.”

Patricia smiled, let her voice quaver with hope. “You—you’ll help me?”

“I will. Why don’t you tell me where you are?”

“I— You’ll call the police!”

“No, no, I won’t. You said you’re turning yourself in. But you want to tell your story first. You want me to make sure people hear your story. I won’t call the police.”

A weak voice, Patricia thought, with just a touch of desperate hope. “You swear?”

“Patricia, I’m a journalist. I only want the truth. I only want your story. I’d never betray you. In fact, when you’re ready, I know a lawyer who’ll help you. We’ll arrange for you to turn yourself in so no one hurts you.”

Patricia studied the flask of scotch she’d sipped while McMullen spoke. “You’d do that?”

“Tell me where you are, and I’ll come meet you. We’ll talk.”

“If you tell the police, and they come, I’ll kill myself. I—I have pills.”

“Don’t take any pills. I won’t do that. Where are you? I’ll come now.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now.”

“I’m at the Traveler’s Best Motel, off Route 98, right before the Portland exit. Please help me, Ms. McMullen. There’s no one else.”

“You sit tight, Patricia. I can be there in forty minutes.”

“Someone has to listen.” Patricia sobbed again. “You’re the only one.”

She hung up, toasted herself in the mirror with the scotch she’d developed a taste for.

Seleena raced to change into an on-camera suit. If things went well, she’d have the crazy woman in her studio inside two hours. The biggest exclusive anywhere, and it fell in her lap.

Once she had that in the pipe, she’d call the FBI. First the mother of all exclusives, then she’d rake it in as the intrepid reporter who brought down Patricia Jane Hobart.

She checked the time as she grabbed her laptop—she’d start with digital remote. Nearly midnight. She’d beat that forty minutes if she pushed it.

She packed up her recorder in case Patricia was initially shy, a still camera, her phone, tossed in a makeup bag, checked her Glock with its hot pink frame, and was in her garage in five minutes flat.

Emily Devlon could have warned her about Patricia’s skill with garage doors, but dead women don’t talk.

Seleena slid behind the wheel.

Her eyes widened in the rearview mirror when Patricia sat up in the back seat. Even as she grabbed for her purse and the gun, the syringe jabbed into her neck.

“Night-night,” Patricia said.

When Seleena slumped, Patricia got out, popped the trunk. She hauled Seleena out, fixed plastic restraints on her wrists and ankles, added a gag just in case Seleena came out of the sedative and made a fuss.

With some effort, she dragged her to the trunk, hoisted her up, and rolled her inside. “You just take a nice nap,” Patricia told her. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

She closed the trunk.

*

Simone didn’t tell him; she wasn’t ready. And in any case, the moment didn’t seem right for declarations of love.

She knew he’d keep the dog. If he wasn’t already in love, he was—as she’d been—slipping and sliding in that direction.