Damage Control

by Robert Dugoni

Genres: Female Sleuths; Suspense

Synopsis

"Dugoni centers a high-speed murder mystery around infidelity and jealousy . . . the plot twists keep the pages turning." -- Kirkus "Fast-moving...will surprise even seasoned thriller readers." -- Publishers Weekly Attorney Dana Hill is used to managing a stressful life: she's one of the most successful lawyers at Strong & Thurmond, mother to a young daughter, wife to a busy, self-involved man. But when she is diagnosed with breast cancer, and her twin brother turns up beaten to death in an apparent robbery-gone-wrong in the same week, the careful balance of Dana's life is sent into flux. Agreeing with the police that this is more than just a simple botched burglary, she begins to sift through the pieces of her brother's life, a life she thought she knew as well as her own, to find out who would want him dead and why. But bad things happen in threes, her mother has told her. When Dana discovers her husband cheating, she throws herself headlong into the investigation. Delaying cancer treatment, she teams with an intuitive detective to find the link between a one-of-a-kind earring found in her brother's bedroom and a mysterious girlfriend no one seems to be able to identify. But those connected to the murder are beginning to turn up dead, the evidence trail is growing cold and someone is masquerading as a police officer, cleaning up the details as they go along.

Release date: February 14, 2007

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 410

Sample

Redmond, Washington

DR. FRANK PILGRIM adjusted the flexible lamp clipped to the edge of his cluttered metal desk, but the additional illumination did not keep the typewritten words on the page from blurring. He set his wire-framed glasses above his bushy gray eyebrows and pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes had reached their limit; they could no longer take the strain of a night reading small print.

Pilgrim glanced across the room, the details a blur. It wasn’t too long ago he could watch the television screen atop the military-green filing cabinets without glasses. Now he could barely make out the cabinets, even with prescription help. His cataracts were getting worse. It didn’t matter. With all the reality-TV crap being broadcast, he had long since relegated the television to background noise. It kept him company at night. He liked to listen to the Mariner baseball games, though the team continued to disappoint him. At seventy-eight, he didn’t have many years left to experience a World Series in Seattle.

The telephone on his desk rang at precisely ten p.m, as it had every night for the past forty-eight years. “I’m just finishing up,” he said, speaking into the old-fashioned handset. He rocked in his chair, bumping against floor-to-ceiling shelving cluttered with a lifetime of books and knickknacks from his and his wife’s trips around the world. Their next stop would be China in the summer. “Just a couple more minutes and I’ll be done, dear.”

His wife told him to be careful walking to his car, reminding him that he was an old man with a cane and an artificial hip and no longer the starting wingback at the U-Dub. “I’m as young as you are, beautiful,” he said. “And as long as I still feel like I’m eighteen, I intend to act that way.”

He told her he loved her and hung up, looking out through the wood-shuttered window of his ground-floor office. His fifteen-year-old BMW sat parked in its customary spot beneath the flood-lights’ tapered orange glow. When he’d opened his practice, the lot had been surrounded by cedar and dog-wood trees, but that was a good many years ago, when getting to Redmond required taking a ferry from Seattle across Lake Washington. With the construction of the 520 and I-90 bridges, the population on the east side of the lake had exploded. Office complexes and high-rise condominiums now shadowed his medical building.

Pilgrim rolled back his chair, closed the file, and carried it to the cabinet, pulling open the drawer to the file he’d angled as a marker and sliding it back in place. Then, as was also his routine—rain or shine—he slipped on his raincoat and hat that he used to think made him look like Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, and reached to shut off the television. He hesitated at the lead news story.

“Robert Meyers was at the Washington State Convention and Trade Center in downtown Seattle today to give the keynote address at a conference on global warming.”

Pilgrim turned up the volume and watched the charismatic young senator enter the convention center, shaking hands with some of the attendees.

“Meyers took the opportunity to continue his attacks on the current Republican administration’s record on the environment.”

The broadcast cut to a shot of Meyers standing at a podium behind a throng of microphones. “This is an issue whose time has come,” he told the audience. “The people of the Pacific Northwest know this as well as any in the United States. The current administration’s continued disregard for the environment is a further demonstration that it is out of touch with issues that will affect the future generations of this great country.”

The story ended, and Pilgrim switched off the television. Curious, he raised his glasses back onto the perch above his eyebrows and used his finger to trace the faded letters on the white cards on the front of the file drawers. His daughter remained determined to modernize the practice, which was now hers, but to him the computer screens, hard drives, and printers throughout the rest of the office made it look like the control room of a spaceship. Not so in the sanctity of his four walls. All he needed were cabinets and the twenty-six letters of the alphabet—a filing system that had worked just fine before Bill Gates and computers. His daughter had relented, but only after he agreed to separate his active from his inactive files. In exchange, she promised not to ship any of his files to storage. His cabinets would leave his office with his body.

He stepped to the cabinet containing his closed files and slid open the third drawer down, straining to read the faded ink on the raised tabs. He pulled the file from the crowded drawer and raised the next in sequence to mark its place, then walked to his desk. Sitting, he heard the familiar sound of the bells indicating the front door had opened. At this time of night, he locked the front door, though the janitor had a key, and Emily occasionally came back to do paperwork after putting her two children to bed. She had her father’s gene for long hours.

Pilgrim stood and pulled open his office door. “Emily, is that you?” The well-dressed man in the dark suit and raincoat stood like a giant amid the miniature chairs and tables. More curious than concerned, Pilgrim asked, “Can I help you?”

“Dr. Frank Pilgrim?”

“Yes. How did you get in?”

The man closed the outer door, locking it. “I brought a key.” “Where did you get a key?”

The man approached. He did not answer.

“What is it you want?” Pilgrim asked. “I have no money here, or anything that would even remotely be considered a narcotic.”

The man reached into the pocket of his raincoat, pulled out a syringe, and removed the stopper at the end of the needle. “That’s okay, Dr. Pilgrim. I’ve brought my own.”

Pilgrim’s eyes narrowed. He balled his fists. “My daughter is here. She’s… she’s in the office right over there.” He called out. “Emily! Emily, there’s a man here. Call the police.”

The intruder stepped forward, displaying no concern. Pilgrim stumbled into his office and closed the door, but the man caught the edge and pushed it open, knocking Pilgrim backward. He closed the door behind him. Pilgrim scrambled for the telephone, but his momentum abruptly stopped, and he felt himself being pulled back by his collar. Instinctively, he turned. The man grabbed him by the throat and jabbed the hypodermic needle into Pilgrim’s chest, depressing the plunger. A burning sensation spread quickly across Pilgrim’s shoulders and down his arms and legs. Pain gripped him, constricting the flow of air to his lungs. He righted himself, then fell backward into the filing cabinet, shoving closed the drawer. The images blurred, distorted and unrecognizable. He lurched for the telephone and managed to grasp the receiver, but the strength in his legs dissolved and he collapsed across the desk, sliding to the floor, his arms pulling forty-eight years of clutter on top of him.



Seattle, Washington

HER KNUCKLES FELT thick and swollen, and her skin was as chilled as if she were working outside in a numbing-cold rain. Dana Hill fumbled with the button of her silk blouse and missed the hole. The button slipped from her grasp. She flexed her fingers and noticed the tremors. She could not steady her hand. She chastised herself, grabbed the stubborn button again, adjusted her blouse, and pushed the bead through the slit. Then she worked her way down the row and tucked the shirttail into her wool skirt. Sweat trickled from beneath her arms—the radiologist had advised that the aluminum in deodorant could interfere with the images.

She sat in one of the chairs and pulled a binder from her briefcase, flipping it open to her presentation. She read three sentences, made a note in the margin, then closed the binder and set it on an adjacent chair, and considered the room. The pastel colors and floral wallpaper contrasted sharply with the vinyl table in the center. The sheet of white paper covering it always made her feel like a slab of meat being weighed at the butcher shop. A colored diagram of the female body hung on the wall, the fallopian tubes a bright red, the ovaries blue, the uterus green. She considered her watch. How long had she been kept waiting? At Strong & Thurmond, she billed her clients in six-minute increments; few would tolerate being kept waiting. Every fifteen minutes was a .25 on Dana’s billing sheet, which translated into $62.50, based on her $250-an-hour billing rate. The numbers caused her to reconsider the statistics she’d read in the articles from the Internet. Who said too much information was a good thing? Did she need to know that one of every seven women in the United States develops breast cancer, that a new case is diagnosed every three minutes, or that a woman dies of the disease every twelve minutes?

One every twelve minutes. A .20 on her time sheet.

Her cell phone beeped, mercifully interrupting her train of thought. She retrieved it from her briefcase and noted that she had missed a call from her brother, James. She was not surprised; she’d read that twins could have an almost innate sense about each other. Her brother always seemed to know when she was troubled. Sadly, she had either not inherited the same gene or had never managed to cultivate it. She returned his call.

He answered on the first ring. “Dana? How come you didn’t answer your phone?”

“I’ve had the ringer off.”

“You had the ringer turned off?” His voice rose with incredulity.

“Very funny. I’m at the doctor’s.”

“I know; your secretary told me. Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine,” she said, trying to sound convincing. “Just annual checkup stuff.”

He didn’t buy it. “You don’t sound fine. You sound anxious.”

She debated what to tell him and decided on the truth. “I found a small lump in my breast in the shower the other morning. I’m just here to have it checked out. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“What did the doctor say?”

She noted the alarm in his voice. “I don’t know; I’m waiting to talk with the radiologist.” She sat in the chair. “I’m sure I’m fine.” Seeking to change the subject, she asked, “Why did you call?”

He sighed, then asked, “Why don’t you ever listen to your messages?”

“Because it takes too long. Do you know how many messages I get? It’s quicker to just call back. Did you call to gloat again about how much more you love teaching the law than practicing it?”

He didn’t answer her.

“James, that was a joke.”

“I know… Listen, this can wait. I’ll call you later.”

“It’s fine. I’m just sitting here waiting for the doctor. You know how that goes. I could be here until tomorrow. Is anything wrong?”

Again he paused. “I have a problem. I’m not sure how to handle it.”

“What about?”

“It’s complicated. I’d rather not talk to you about it over the phone. Can we have lunch? I could meet you downtown.”

She shut her eyes. It seemed she never had time. She rubbed her forehead, feeling the onset of a headache. “I can’t today. I have to give a presentation this afternoon. What about tonight? Grant is picking up Molly. I could meet you after work.”

“I can’t tonight,” he said. “I have a late class and forty legal briefs on the Erie Doctrine and federal jurisdiction to read.”

“So teaching isn’t all peaches and cream after all?”

“What about tomorrow?” he asked.

“You’re not sick, are you?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“I don’t have my calendar with me. Call Linda and make sure I’m free.”

The door to the room pushed open. A tall woman wearing a white smock over a beige shirt and blue cotton pants stepped in holding two X-rays. “James, I have to go. The doctor just walked in.”

He rushed the next sentence. “Okay, but call and tell me what the doctor says.”

“I’ve got to go.”

“Dana?”

“I’ll call you. I’ll call you.” She disconnected and shoved the phone into her briefcase. “Sorry about that.”

“Not a problem. I’m Dr. Bridgett Neal. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” Dr. Neal’s white smock seemed a size too large. It dangled to her knees and hung from her shoulders as if she’d borrowed it from a big sister. “The mammogram went all right?” Neal wore no jewelry or discernible makeup. She had dark hair with a curl and fair skin. Dana guessed Irish, maybe Scandinavian.

“As well as having my breast flattened like a pancake can go.” Dana mustered a smile. Her conversation with James had distracted her. Now anxiety seeped back into her joints, making her restless.

Neal smiled. “I tell my husband every man should have a similar experience with their testicles to appreciate it fully.”

Dana chuckled. “And you haven’t had any volunteers?” “Imagine that.” Neal flipped on the light box and snapped three X-rays in place. “We’ve located the lump.” She pointed the end of a red-capped pen at a subfusc gray dot the size of a pea. “When was your last exam? I didn’t find any notation in your file.”

“About a year ago. I asked my doctor to have the files sent over.”

Neal sat on a rolling stool and adjusted the height. “I have them. I’d like to talk with you about the incident in high school.” She reviewed notes Dana assumed had been made by the nurse during their earlier conversation. “You indicated there was no mammogram taken?”

“I don’t think so. Dr. Watkins described it as hard tissue that became inflamed when I had my period.”

Neal grimaced. “It’s too bad they didn’t do a mammogram, but they didn’t always do them back then. It would have been a useful baseline to compare with these images.” She pointed back at the mammogram. “How old was your mother when she had her mastectomy?”

“My age—thirty-four.” Dana’s stomach flipped. She brushed strands of hair from her face, pulling it back off her forehead and readjusting the clip, then she wrapped her arms across her chest. She wished she’d brought a sweater. Why did they always keep these rooms so cold?

Neal put down the pen. “Lumps are not uncommon in younger women. They can come and go with your menstrual cycle.”

“I’m on the pill.”

Neal picked the pen back up. “Lumps are still not uncommon. How long have you been on the pill?”

“Since my daughter was born, almost three years… and four years before that. I’ve wanted to stop, but my husband refuses to wear a condom.”

Neal finished making a note, and slipped the pen into the front pocket of her white coat. She stood. “Will you open your blouse for me?”

“Again?” Something was wrong.

Neal looked calm. “I’d like to feel the nodule.”

Dana sat on the edge of the examination table. The buttons were decidedly easier to undo. She unclasped her bra and raised her right arm over her head. Neal probed with her fingers, looking past Dana at the diagram on the wall. “Do you have any pain in that area?”

“No.”

Neal wrote some additional notes in the chart. Dana reclasped her bra. “Hold on.” Neal looked up. “As long as you’re here, I’d like to do a fine-needle aspiration. ”

The words hit Dana like a blow to the chest. “What? Why?”

Neal pointed to the X-rays. “The bump you found appears to have an irregular edge, and its hard.”

“Oh, shit,” Dana said.

Neal raised a hand to calm her. “That doesn’t mean it’s cancerous.”

“Then why the aspiration?”

“Without another mammogram to compare it to, I don’t know how long it’s been there or if it’s changed shape. A fine-needle aspiration allows me to have some tissue examined under the microscope.”

Anger began to replace Dana’s fear. Her mother had lost a breast thirty years ago, and it seemed nothing had changed. “How long will it take? I have an important presentation to give today.” She thought it sounded like an excuse.

“Just a few minutes. It will save you the trouble of having to come back. I can give you the results over the telephone. If it’s fluid, we’ll know immediately. If it is a mass, I’ll obtain some cells and send it down to the lab. Depending on how backed up they are, they should have the results in a few days. The alternative is to schedule you for a biopsy in the surgery clinic downstairs.”

Dana sat again. Neal opened and closed drawers, removing a needle and syringe. Dana said, “You know, when I was seventeen, I never thought anything about it. I remember being embarrassed because my mom was freaking out in front of the doctor. Now I know exactly how she felt. I’m most concerned about my daughter.”

Neal snapped on latex gloves. “How old is your daughter?”

“Three. I read that breast cancer can be genetic.”

“Let’s take it one step at a time. We’ll do the aspiration today, and I’ll give you some written information to take home to read. I’ll call you with the results as soon as I get them. In the interim, try to find something else to focus on.”

Dana nodded, though she was unable to think of anything at that moment.



DANA TOOK A detour off the elevator to avoid the northwest corner of the floor and slipped into her office, closing the door behind her. Her desk overflowed with legal treatises, partnership agreements, and shareholder resolutions for a multitude of Strong & Thurmond’s corporate clients. Marvin Crocket continued to push her to the limit, trying to force her to cry uncle and quit, or just fail. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She’d never quit anything in her life. She wasn’t about to start now.

She set her briefcase beside her desk and rubbed at the stinging sensation where the needle had pierced her breast.

The floor vibrated. The door to her office burst open.

“I see you’ve arrived.” Crocket stepped in. At five foot seven and 250 pounds, with a nearly bald head, Crocket resembled a bowling ball. He didn’t walk the halls so much as he rolled through them, causing an unmistakable tremor—a silent alarm to the associates who toiled for him that Crocket was out of his cage. In his late fifties, he was a psychologist’s dream, a walking series of complexes: short, bald, and fat. Crocket, however, was no joke. He masked his weight well beneath designer clothes and staggering success. The managing partner of Strong & Thurmond’s business department, Crocket was a relentless worker, billing over 2,800 hours each year, and a rainmaker who had amassed a book of business that exceeded $6 million in annual legal fees. He kept Dana and twelve other associates busy, going through them like a chain smoker does a pack of cigarettes, tossing aside the burned butts. He would be particularly unpleasant today because he had invited a potential client to Dana’s presentation and was intent on adding the client to his book of business.

“I want to review your presentation,” he said.

Dana reached across her desk and handed him a binder. Thank God Linda had made the copies. Crocket took the binder as if it might bite, sat in a chair, and flipped through it quickly. Apparently unable to think of anything negative, he snapped it shut. “Don Burnside will be there.”

Crocket had been courting Burnside like a post-pubescent teen. “I know. You told me.”

“And the Feldman incorporation papers must be filed today.”

“I filed them yesterday,” she said.

“The Iverson IPO is in three weeks.”

He was meeting with the client on Monday. “You’ll have all the necessary paperwork on your desk by noon today.”

Crocket’s dislike for Dana was basic. After Molly’s birth, she had opted for a three-day work week and put being a mother before her career, which, according to Crocket, meant she shouldn’t have a career. The other firm shareholders had also not been pleased, though for a different reason. Dana had been a rising star amid Strong & Thurmond’s 225 associates, the kind of lawyer whom law firms love to market to clients: a good-looking capable female who knew when and how to schmooze clients and when to bust balls.

Getting nowhere, Crocket said, “I was looking for you this morning.”

“I had a doctor’s appointment this morning.”

“You’re not pregnant again, are you?”

She wondered if the term “sexual discrimination” even entered the man’s thoughts. “No, not yet, but you’ll be the first to know.”

Crocket crossed a leg with difficulty. “What kind of doctor’s appointment?”

You asked for it.

“Actually, I’ve been having some irregular bleeding, Marvin, spotting. I decided to have it checked out.”

Crocket’s face flushed, and he stood with a grunt. “I’ll see you at five sharp in the conference room.”

Dana closed the door behind him and sat at her desk. She wanted to both laugh and cry. Her to-do list had grown to three pages. Crying would make her feel better. She looked to the bookshelves, focused on a framed picture of Molly, and was suddenly overwhelmed by the thought that she could possibly leave her little girl. For six years, Dana had ingratiated herself to Strong & Thurmond’s twenty-five shareholders, working long hours and weekends to chalk up substantial billable hours and to drum up business. She had thought being a partner at one of Seattle’s top law firms was what she wanted. But Molly’s birth had changed her perspective, and she’d agonized over what to do. Grant had offered little support, saying they’d suffer financially if she cut back, especially with the new house and higher monthly mortgage payment. But she’d felt too much guilt over leaving Molly in day care every day of the week and then having to work on the weekends. She was cheating her daughter. She was cheating herself. She had asked to be removed from the partnership track. Marvin Crocket was the black hole to which the firm had condemned her.

Her telephone rang. She hit the speaker button. “Your husband is on the phone,” Linda said.

“Thanks, Linda. Put him through.” She left him on the speaker. “Hi, Grant.”

“I’ve been trying to reach you all morning,” he said, confirming that he had not remembered her doctor’s appointment. “Listen, I can tell already this deposition in Everett is going to take longer than I expected. The witness is giving me bullshit answers and brought a stack of exhibits two feet high. I won’t be back in time to pick up Molly. You’ll have to get her.”

Dana felt the floor fall out from beneath her. “No, Grant. I told you, I have my presentation today.”

“Call Maria or your mother.”

“I can’t. When you said you wanted to pick up Molly, I canceled Maria. My mother has bridge this afternoon.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, babe.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, either. You agreed to do it. We scheduled this a week ago.” They had actually coordinated their Palm Pilots.

“Can’t someone else do the presentation?”

She suppressed her anger. “It’s my presentation. I worked my ass off, and Crocket is just waiting for me to screw it up. Why can’t you cut the deposition short and resume it another day?”

He sounded aghast. “No way. This is the Nelson case. The defense lawyer is a complete prick; I don’t want him thinking he’s doing me any favors. Besides, there are no other days available. We’re in expert depositions right up to trial. I have to finish this guy today.”

“Dammit, Grant, couldn’t you give me any notice?”

“Don’t blame me, Dana. I’m up to my ass in alligators here. How important can a practice group meeting be? Just reschedule the damn thing.”

“There are thirty people involved, and Crocket is bringing a potential client. I can’t go into his office to reschedule; he already has me under a microscope, you know that.”

“Look, I can’t fight that battle for you. You’re a big girl. Handle Crocket or quit complaining.”

“How about if I just quit?” It was her trump card. Without her income, which was higher than his, he couldn’t afford the lease on the BMW or the house in Madison Park.

“My break is over. Do what you have to do.”

He hung up.



DANA STOOD BENEATH the covered patio with the mail clenched between her teeth, a bag of groceries balanced on a knee, and the dry cleaning stretching the tendons of her fingers. With her free hand, she continued to rummage through the pens and paper clips at the bottom of her briefcase in search of her house keys. Water seeped between the butted ends of the plastic corrugated canopy overhead and dripped on her shoulder. Molly stood beside her, crying. Grant had promised her an ice cream after day care, something Dana did not allow before dinner. Dana kept a foot wedged in the dog door, struggling to keep Max, their eighty-pound golden retriever, at bay. She heard the telephone ringing inside the kitchen.

She found the keys, inserted the correct one in the lock, and turned the handle. Molly shoved the door. “Molly, don’t push,” Dana mumbled, but it was too late. Max wedged his nose in the crack and bulled the door open, bounding out, knocking Molly over. The bag of groceries toppled from Dana’s knee. A carton of eggs hit the ground with a crack. Two red apples rolled across the kitchen floor. Dana stepped in, spitting the mail on the table. She stepped around the carton of eggs, kneed Max in the chest to keep him off her, and hung the dry cleaning on the swinging door to the formal dining room. Then she stepped back outside and picked up Molly, carrying her into the house and sitting her on the kitchen counter. Tears streamed down the little girl’s cheeks; she’d scraped her knee just below her blue dress. Behind them, Max licked at the egg yolk as if he hadn’t been fed in a week. Dana’s cellular phone rang—Grant calling from his cell phone. She answered it while continuing to wipe Molly’s tears and hug her.

“Dana? Where were you? I just called the house. What’s wrong with her?”

“She wants an ice cream. She says her daddy promised her one.”

“Oh God, don’t start with me about that again. Ice cream isn’t going to kill her.”

“Dammit, Max.” The dog had pulled a package of hamburger meat from the grocery bag. “Hold on.” She dragged Max outside by the collar and shut the door and the dog door. He pawed and barked to get back in. She picked up her phone. “Where are you, Grant?”

“Jesus, someone is in a foul mood.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m just leaving my office.”

“Your office?” She looked at her watch. “What happened to the deposition in Everett?”

“Most of his documents were bullshit. I finished his ass by three. It gave me time to get back to the office and do trial prep. This Nelson case is killing me.” Dana heard voices in the background. “Listen, don’t count on me for dinner. Softball tonight. I’m late. I’ll call you later.”

“Grant?” But he was gone. Dana closed her phone and picked up Molly, burying her face in her daughter’s hair. Outside, it had begun to rain again.

THE SOUND OF the electric garage door prompted Dana to look up from the black binder to the ornate clock on the mantel above the fireplace. Eleven-twenty. She lay in bed, fighting to keep her eyes open. When she’d told Crocket of her conflict, he had ranted and raved for thirty minutes about commitment, teamwork, and priorities. Then he’d sent out a memorandum notifying the practice group that the presentation had been changed to the following morning. When Linda had seen the memo, she’d walked into Dana’s office and told her that Don Burnside from Corrugate Industries had called with an unexpected conflict just minutes before Dana went into Crocket’s office. Crocket had already rescheduled the presentation.

Dana heard Grant come through the kitchen door. Max was whining, his tail whacking against the wood cabinets with a dull thud. The dog had not been run in weeks, not since the Nelson case exploded and Grant quit his morning jog. Grant had insisted they buy Max from a breeder for those rare occasions when he went bird hunting with his fraternity brothers in eastern Washington, but he had never bothered to train the dog. Max had yet to retrieve anything. He usually shredded the newspaper on the front lawn. Dana felt a perverse sense of satisfaction at the sound of condiments rattling in the refrigerator door—Grant searching for something to eat. The groceries she had picked up were staples. She hadn’t done a full shop in weeks. She and Molly had eaten hamburgers and milk shakes. She’d made a patty for Grant, then fed it to Max.

Max’s paws pounded the stairs, and his nails clicked and clacked on the hardwood floor leading to the master bedroom. He nudged open the . . .