Chương 7
He was younger than Caleb, though still perhaps forty. His fitted black suit looked untouched despite the night. His expression remained flat.
“I am,” he said.
“Did you tell anyone?”
“No.”
Nathaniel said, “Enough.”
Wren looked out the window.
They reached her street to find two police cruisers, an ambulance, and a crowd outside the three-story apartment building. Her landlord stood in slippers near the curb, speaking loudly to an officer.
The rear door of the building hung open.
Nathaniel parked half a block away.
“No one gets out,” he said.
Wren opened her door.
He caught her forearm.
She looked at his hand until he released it.
Brutus pushed between the seats.
“Stay with the vehicle,” Nathaniel told him.
The dog jumped out after Wren.
Nathaniel closed his eyes briefly.
Dahlia climbed out too. “We’ve established he has independent judgment.”
They approached the building together. Owen moved ahead. Nathaniel stayed close to Wren without touching her.
Her landlord noticed them and stopped talking.
He was a narrow man named Mr. Peloquin who wore undershirts in the hallway and considered repairs a form of personal betrayal.
“Ms. Kelly,” he called. “You need to explain this.”
The officer beside him looked at Nathaniel and reached for his radio.
Wren ignored both of them.
A man sat on the ambulance bumper with a blanket around his shoulders.
He was thinner than Nathaniel. His dark hair had gone prematurely gray at the temples. A scar ran from his left ear into the collar of his shirt, and one leg stretched stiffly in front of him. He held a metal cane across his knees.
Brutus stopped.
The man looked up.
For a second, no one moved.
Then Brutus ran.
The mastiff’s enormous body struck the man with enough force to make the paramedic lunge forward. The man dropped the cane and wrapped both arms around the dog’s neck.
“Hey,” he whispered. “Hey, you disobedient bastard.”
Brutus whined.
It was the first sound Wren had heard from him other than the growl.
The man’s face disappeared against the dog’s collar. His shoulders shook once.
Nathaniel stood several feet away, his hands at his sides.
“Gabriel,” he said.
Gabriel did not look up. “You brought him to a shooting.”
“He brought himself.”
“That sounds familiar.”
Brutus turned his head toward Wren.
Gabriel followed the dog’s gaze.
His eyes found her.
They were lighter than Nathaniel’s, brown with a ring of green. Wren remembered them opening beneath ambulance lights, unfocused and full of pain.
Gabriel stood too quickly. His damaged leg buckled. The paramedic caught his elbow, but Gabriel shook him off.
“You,” he said.
Wren’s throat tightened.
He crossed the distance using the cane. Each step required a small correction, an argument between his body and the pavement.
When he reached her, he stopped.
“I remembered your shoes,” he said.
She looked down at the repaired black work shoes.
One toe had been stitched twice. The sole of the left had been glued after a winter split.
Gabriel smiled without humor. “I thought I invented them.”
“What happened upstairs?” Nathaniel asked.
Gabriel’s attention stayed on Wren. “The back door was open.”
“I told you not to leave.”
“And I’ve spent four years doing what you tell me.”
“That is untrue.”
“Then we agree I’m consistent.”
Nathaniel’s jaw tightened.
Gabriel looked toward the building. “Someone searched her apartment. Bedroom, kitchen, closet. They left the television and laptop.”
“I don’t have a laptop,” Wren said.
Gabriel glanced at her. “Then they left the television.”
Mr. Peloquin approached, still in slippers. “The door was forced. I’m going to need a police report for insurance.”
“I asked you to repair that lock,” Wren said.
“The lock was functional.”
“It opened if you lifted the handle.”
“That is how some locks work.”
“No,” Dahlia said. “That is how broken locks work.”
Mr. Peloquin looked at Brutus. “Dogs aren’t allowed.”
The mastiff stared at him.
Mr. Peloquin stepped back.
The younger police officer approached. “Ms. Kelly, we need a statement.”
Nathaniel said, “She will provide one later.”
The officer’s gaze hardened. “I asked Ms. Kelly.”
Wren looked at his nameplate. PATEL.
Before she could answer, the older officer from the restaurant stepped out of the building.
He saw Nathaniel and stopped.
Nathaniel’s stillness changed.
Not visibly enough for anyone else, perhaps, but Wren felt it. Brutus felt it too. The dog moved closer to her.
The older officer removed his cap. “Mr. Vale.”
Nathaniel said, “Sergeant Doyle.”
Doyle looked at Wren. “We should speak privately.”
“About the missing report?” she asked.
His face remained professional.
Nathaniel had told her the officer who took her statement claimed she refused to sign.
Four years earlier, the officer had been younger and heavier, with rain dripping from his cap as he handed her a pen.
She remembered his voice now.
You’re sure about the ring?
Wren stared at Doyle.
He recognized the moment recognition reached her.
His eyes moved toward the street.
Owen stepped into his path.
Doyle’s hand dropped toward his holster.
Brutus growled.
The crowd changed shape. People backed away. Phones rose.
Officer Patel looked from Doyle to Nathaniel. “Sergeant?”
Doyle did not answer.
Wren’s heart beat hard enough to shake her vision, but her voice came quietly.
“You took my statement.”
Doyle swallowed.
“You told me the driver was drunk,” she said. “You told me there was no other vehicle.”
“Ms. Kelly, you were in shock.”
“I signed three pages.”
“I don’t recall that.”
“You asked about the ring.”
Officer Patel’s face tightened. “Sergeant, what is she talking about?”
Doyle glanced at Nathaniel. “This is exactly why witnesses should be separated.”
Nathaniel took one measured step forward.
Doyle drew his gun.
Everything after that happened badly.
Mr. Peloquin screamed and fell behind a parked car. Officer Patel reached for Doyle’s wrist. Owen pulled Wren backward. Gabriel swung his cane at Doyle’s arm. The gun fired into the pavement.
May you like
Brutus hit Doyle in the chest.
The mastiff did not bite. He pinned him.
