As I moved through the hazy night air, a twig snapped under my feet. I froze. Sweat was curling the hairs on my neck, and my armpits were damp and sticking to my shirt. I suddenly felt ridiculous. Why am I tiptoeing around like some two-bit cat burglar? I had a perfectly acceptable reason for venturing down that driveway that night. Yes, I was trespassing, but it’s not like I was trying to sneak in and steal the owner’s garden gnomes because she wrote a mean （and completely unwarranted） review of my Lady Macbeth. I was just a gal who lost her dog.
I contemplated announcing myself with a “Hello! Anybody home?” But as I stepped into the driveway to call out, floodlights went on, and I lost my nerve.
“Shit!” I cursed as I retreated back into the woods. What kind of actress tries to hide when the lights come on? Oh right—a failed actress. How fitting.
I took advantage of the light to scan the yard. I saw Brando almost immediately. He’d found a bird feeder and was scavenging for fallen birdseed and crunching on what looked like a dead dove.
“Brando!” I hushed. “Come here right now!”
He didn’t look up. Clearly I was less engaging than his midnight snack. I was too nervous to be annoyed—that would come later, when he barfed up feathers all over my rug.
The lights went out and the yard was once again gobbled up by darkness. I gave my eyes a few seconds to adjust, then crept around the side of the house into the backyard, his leash at the ready. I could carry him if I had to, but we’d be faster on six legs instead of two.
“Brando,” I coaxed. “Come on, let’s go.”
He stuck his snout back in the birdseed. I cursed myself and my piss-poor dog training skills, then tiptoed toward him. The bird feeder was an odd structure—just a little shelf fastened to a utilitarian metal pole. The pole was smooth and black like a stovepipe and topped with what looked like a chimney cap or little birdie parasol. The dish of birdseed that had presumably been set on the platform had fallen on the ground, and Brando was pawing at it, trying to discover any morsels that may have been hidden underneath.
“Brando! Come!” I reached for him. My outstretched hand was mere inches from his collar when the first shot rang out—a searing pop as jarring as a clap of thunder and a thousand times more urgent.
“Shit, shit, shit!” I dropped to my stomach and pressed my cheek into the hard ground. I remembered the NO TRESPASSING sign, and how I’d brazenly ignored it. Adrenaline shot up my spine as I agonized over what to do. Put my hands up? Call out? Stay still? Run like hell?
As I lifted my head to get my bearings—
Pop! That sound again, sharp and stinging like the crack of a whip. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from—it felt like it was everywhere and nowhere. This neighborhood was a favorite stomping ground for coyotes and the occasional bobcat. I suddenly realized that if the gunman mistook me for the predator that killed their cat, this could end really badly.
I stretched my neck to glance at the bird feeder. Brando was gone—scared off by the gunshot, no doubt. Probably a good time for me to scram, too. Keeping as low to the ground as I could, I dug my fingers into the cold earth and G.I. Joe crawled toward the woods. I had no idea what my trigger-happy host would do if they saw me, and I didn’t want to find out by getting shot.
Once in the safety of the shadowy trees, I slipped between two towering oaks and slowly stood. As I frantically combed the landscape for my dog—where the hell did he go?—the darkness was sliced open by headlights bumping up the drive.
Panic hit me like a blast of cold air. As the car closed in on me, I pressed against a tree to duck the glare of its white-hot headlights. I waited for the dust kicked up by the tires to settle, then tucked my chin and ran.
CHAPTER 6
* * *
LOUISA
“Aunt Louisa!” Nathan called to me as he jumped out of his fancy German sports car. The revolver was still pointed in the air above my head, and my thumb was stinging from the recoil. It had been a while since I’d fired my gun; I had forgotten how hard it kicked, and how fragile my aging hands had become.
“What are you doing?” my nephew shouted when he saw me standing on my front stoop. “My God, are you all right? What happened?”
“I’m fine,” I said, lowering the gun to dangle beside trembling legs. “I didn’t mean to call you.” That was a lie. I had meant to call him. But now that I had things under control, I didn’t want him to think I couldn’t take care of myself, because I could, just as I had done every day for the last ten years.