A mysterious contagion will shatter countless lives unless a service dog and his trainer find a missing cat . . . in 24 hours. Eight years ago, animal behaviorist September Day escaped a sadistic captor who left her ashamed, terrified, and struggling with PTSD.

She trusts no one, except her service dog, Shadow. They are each others’ only chance to survive the stalker’s vicious payback. When September learns to trust again, and a good-dog takes a chance on love, together they find hope in the midst of despair, and discover what family really means.

Prologue

Tommy Dietz grabbed the car door handle with one bloody fist, and braced his other hand against the roof, worried the carcasses in the back would buck out of the truck’s bed. Despite the precaution, his head thumped the muddy window. He glared at the driver who drove the truck like he rode a bronco, but BeeBo Benson’s full moon face sported the same toothless grin he’d worn for the past two weeks. Even BeeBo’s double chins smiled, including the rolls at the nape of his freckled neck.

The ferret thin guy in the middle snarled each time his Katy Railroad belt buckle chinked against the stick shift he straddled. Gray hair straggled from under his hat and brushed his shoulders. He had to slouch or he risked punching his head through the rust-eaten roof. Randy Felch’s snaky eyes gave Dietz the shivers even more than the freezing temperatures spitting through windows that refused to seal.

Three across the cramped seat would be a lark for high school buddies out on the town, but the men were decades beyond graduation. Dietz was in charge so Felch could either ride the hump or share the open truck bed with two carcasses, and the new Production Assistant.

Dietz stifled a laugh. Not so high-and-mighty now, was he? The man must really want the job. Vince Grady had turned green when he was told to climb into the back of the truck. Just wait till he got a load of the dump. Dietz remembered his first visit three years ago when he’d been out scouting locations. He wondered how the spit-and-polish Grady would react.

He’d hired locals for the rest of the crew. They needed the work, and didn’t blink at the SAG ultra-low pay scale, the shitty weather, or the stink. In this business, you took anything available when pickings were slim. Then the show got picked up and union fees grabbed him by the short hairs. Amateur talent screwing around and missing call times cost even more money, so he needed a Production Assistant— PA in the lingo—with more polish and bigger balls to keep the wheels greased. A go-to guy able to think on his feet, get the job done. No matter what.

If Grady wanted the PA job, he’d have to be willing to get his hands dirty, and stand up to BeeBo and his ilk. Riding in the open truck bed was illegal as hell, though here in North Texas even the cops turned a blind eye unless it was kids. This was an audition, and Grady knew it.

He had to give Grady props—he’d not blinked, but clenched his jaw and climbed right in when they collected him at his hotel. He’d been less enthusiastic after following the hunters most of the morning, tramping to hell and gone through rough country until his eyes threatened to freeze shut. Something drove the man, something more than a PA credit for piss-poor pay and worse conditions. Hell, something drove them all to work in this unforgiving business. Dietz didn’t care about anyone else’s demons as long as they let him feed his own.

Dietz craned to peer out the back to be sure the man hadn’t been tossed out the tailgate. Grady gave Dietz a thumbs-up. Probably wants to point a different finger, Dietz thought. Grady wore the official Hog Hell blue work gloves and ski mask—dark blue background and DayGlo red star on the face—or he’d be picking his frostbit nose off the floor.

Prime time in the back woods. Dietz’s quick smile faded. Nothing about this trip was prime, not even the butchered Bambi in the back. Deer season ran November through early January, and it was always open season on hogs, so they were legal for any follow up film footage. The two deer hadn’t looked good even before BeeBo dropped them, but that’s what viewers wanted. Crocodile wrestlers, duck dynasties, and gold rush grabbers with crusty appeal and redder necks.

Nobody wanted actors anymore. Casting directors looked for “real people.” So he’d caught a clue, jumped off the thespian hamster wheel, moved to New York and reinvented himself as Tommy Dietz, Producer. He’d found his calling with a development company relatively quickly.

A movie star face didn’t hurt. Everyone these days had a little nip-and-tuck; it was part of the biz. He’d been selling his version of reality for years anyway, and always came out on top. He hit it out of the park on his third project. Hog Hell kicked off the next step with a Texas-size leap. He’d show them all, those who’d laughed at his dreams, calling him a loser. And he’d make them sorry.

The shabby pickup lurched down and back up again, and its engine growled and complained. Dietz was surprised the seat hadn’t fallen through the floor. The overgrown road the hunters called a pig path consisted of frozen ruts formed from previous tire treads. They damn well better not get stuck out here.

“Don’t worry, she’ll make it.” BeeBo talked around the stub of his unlit cigar. “This ol’ warhorse made the trip so often, she could drive herself. Ain’t that right, Felch?” BeeBo reached to downshift and Felch winced as the other man’s ham-size fist grabbed and jerked the stick between his knees.

Dietz sighed. Out the window, skeletal trees clawed the pregnant sky. Weird flocks of blackbirds moved in undulating clouds, exploding from one naked tree after another to clothe the next with feathered leaves. Spooky.

Thank God the icy weather stayed dry. Heartland, Texas had dug out of a record-breaking snowfall, and the locals hadn’t quite recovered. It put a kink in Hog Hell filming and they’d barely met the deadlines. Delay turned his balance book bloody with red ink.

Back home in Chicago they’d been hit with the same blizzard and so had NYC. But big cities knew how to manage winter weather. Apparently North Texas rolled up the sidewalks with even the hint of flurries. He wondered if BeeBo and Felch knew what to do in the snow, and didn’t want to find out. The thought of hunkering down overnight in the truck with these men turned his stomach.

Dietz adjusted his own ski mask. He’d folded it up off his face so the blue cap hugged his head while the red star painted a bull’s-eye on his forehead. He wore the official coat, too; dark blue and a bright hunter-safe star on the front and back, with the Hog Hell logo. The Gore-Tex fabric crackled with newness, and his blistered feet whimpered inside wet, dirt-caked boots. No way would he wear his new $300 Cabela’s, purchased for photo ops at the upcoming watch party. He had a gun, too. In Texas nobody cared if you carried. They expected it.

BeeBo’s preferred weapon, an ancient short barreled shotgun loaded with deer slugs, contrasted sharply with Felch’s double gun he’d had custom made last season. Felch shot 44 Magnums, and the cut down double barrel rifle boasted enough firepower to take out an elephant, or a charging feral boar hog. They sleeved the guns in canvas cases stowed in the back of the truck, but the hunters cared far less about their own attire.

BeeBo and Felch would wear official Hog Hell gear at the watch party in five weeks, but not before. Dietz didn’t want them stinking up the outfits. Today they wore wash-faded coveralls, heavy work coats, earflap hats, clunky boots with thorn-tangled laces, and frayed gloves with fingertips cut out. A bit of peeling DayGlo tape formed an “X” on the back and front of each coat after Dietz insisted on the nod to safety, even though he knew the two hunters paid little mind to official start and end dates during hunting season.

That was the point of the original reality program Cutting Corners that focused on people forced to skirt the rules to make ends meet. The unlikely stars of a single episode, though, turned Felch and BeeBo into overnight sensations and birthed the new show after Cutting Corners tanked. The two hunters were experts at skirting rules. Dietz was no slouch, either.

In the truck bed, Grady swayed back and forth. He’d pushed up the ski mask enough to expose his mouth. White breath puffed out in a jerky tempo, and Dietz wondered if the man would pass out. If Grady took a header off the truck bed, the liability would kill the show. “Find a spot to stop, BeeBo. I think our new team member has had enough.”

Felch grunted. “No place to stop till we get there. Unless you want us to get stuck.” He grinned, but the expression never reached his eyes. “You don’t want us lugging that shit back to your hotel. The stink ain’t something you want close by.”

BeeBo guffawed. “Got that right. With all the hunters unloading, it’s what y’all might call a ‘renewable resource.’” He twisted the wheel and the truck bucked, jittering the decades old pine-shaped deodorizer suspended from the rear view mirror. “The critters take care of the stink pretty quick, though.” His hairless wide-eyed face was a ringer for the Gerber baby. “It’s around that next bend. You might even catch a whiff of Jiff by now.”

Dietz wrinkled his nose. The pungent aroma wasn’t assuaged by the air freshener that had probably come with the vehicle. He shielded his head from another thump, and squinted ahead through the crusty windshield. Wiper blades had torn loose on the passenger’s side and smeared the detritus rather than clearing the view. It didn’t bother BeeBo.

The trio remained silent during the final bump-and-grind through the trees. They pulled halfway into the clearing, and Dietz waited impatiently until BeeBo cranked the steering wheel, turned, and backed beneath a massive tree with pendulous clusters decorating the branches. Grady ducked, or he would have been scraped off by low limbs.

Several similar trees bordered the clearing, and another smaller truck squatted at the far end of the area. An elderly man stood in the truck bed and flailed tree branches with a long pole, while the woman dodged and weaved beneath to gather the resulting shower in a bucket.

“What’s that?” Grady wasted no time jumping off the truck bed. He gagged when the wind shifted.

“Nuts.” Felch unfolded himself from the cramped middle seat. “Pecan trees. They’re gleaning the nuts.”

Dietz’s stomach clenched. He pulled the ski mask over his lips and breathed through his mouth, imagining he could taste the odor that closed his throat. Neither Felch nor BeeBo seemed to notice the stench.

Grady wiped his watery eyes. The breeze paused and he gulped a less contaminated breath. “Pecans? To eat?”

The truck squeaked, rocked and grew two inches when BeeBo stepped out. “Back in town they’ll pay $8 to $10 per pound, once shelled. I got my daddy’s old commercial sheller—held together with baling twine and spit, but works okay. I only charge fifty-cents a pound to shell.” He shrugged. “Every little bit helps. It’s too early for most of the big-name commercial farms, but for the gleaners, if ya wait too long the squirrels get ‘em off the trees, or the pigs root ‘em off the ground. Pigs eat lots of the same stuff the deer and turkeys eat, acorns and suchlike. But they get ground-nesting bird eggs, too. Pigs’ll root up and eat damn near anything.” He jerked his chins at Felch. “Gimme a hand.” He lumbered toward the back of the truck and waited by the taillights.

Felch vaulted in the bed of the vehicle, and adjusted his gloves. He pointed. “Smorgasbord, y’all. Hey Slick, you might want to get video of this. Bet your big-city cronies never seen the like.” His yellow teeth gleamed. He bent low, and grunted as he pushed and tugged the black plastic bag to the tailgate, hopped down and joined BeeBo. Together they slung the truck’s cargo into the pit.

Yipping and growls erupted from below. Dietz stayed back, he’d seen it before. This stuff he wouldn’t put on the air. This’d be too much even for the hardcore viewers without the added value of aroma.

Grady covered his mouth and nose in the crook of his elbow. He edged closer to the deep trough, a natural ditch-like runoff that sat dry three-quarters of the year. Piles of gnawed and scattered bones mixed with carcasses in various stages of decomposition. A family of coyotes tried to claim BeeBo’s tossed deer remains, but was bluffed away by a feral boar.

Grady ripped off his ski mask, puked, wiped his mouth, and grabbed his camera with a shaking hand. He spit on the frozen ground and jutted his chin at Dietz. “So?”

Dietz smiled. “You got the gig.”

***

The damn ski mask dragged against his hair so much, the normally clear adhesive had turned chalky. Victor had removed the wig after dissolving the glue with a citrus-scented spray, a much more pleasant olfactory experience than the afternoon’s visit to the dump. A shower rinsed away any lingering miasma, but he gladly put up with the stink, the rednecks, and the sneers. The payoff would be worth it.

Until then, he couldn’t afford for anyone in Heartland to recognize him. His tool kit of fake teeth, makeup and assorted hairpieces kept him under the radar. For the price, nearly fifty bucks for a four-ounce bottle of adhesive, it damn well better hold the new wig in place for the promised six weeks. He rubbed his hands over his pale, bald head and grinned. Even without the wig, she’d be hard pressed to recognize him.

Muscles had replaced the beer gut, Lasik surgery fixed his eyes, a chin implant and caps brightened his smile. He’d done it all, one step at a time, over the eight years it took to track her down. He’d even changed his name and transformed himself into a man she couldn’t refuse.

He’d done it for her. Everything for her.

He dialed his phone. “I want to order flowers. Forget-Me-Nots, in a white box with a yellow ribbon. Got that? And deliver them December eighteenth. It’s our anniversary.” He listened. “Use red ink. The message is ‘payback.’ Got that? No signature, she’ll know it’s me.” He picked up a news clipping that listed the address, and admired the picture. She was lovely as ever.

“Two-oh-five Rabbit Run Road, Heartland, Texas. Deliver to September Day. The name is just like the month.” He chuckled softly. “Yes, it will be a lovely holiday surprise.”

He could hardly wait.

Chapter 1: Five Weeks Later

“I’m dreaming of a brown Christmas, just like the ones I used to know . . .” September stopped singing when her voice cracked. There was a reason she played cello.

She settled the instrument between her knees and caressed the silk-smooth wood. The pungent scent of the Christmas tree, a cedar cut from the back of the property, made her smile. After the recent freak Thanksgiving blizzard, a holiday without snow would be a gift. Boring would be nice, too.

The phone in the nearby kitchen rang, and she let the machine answer. “You’ve reached Pets Peeves Behavior Consulting. We’re closed for the holidays. If this is a medical issue, please call your veterinarian. For new behavior clients, please complete the questionnaire on the PetsPeeves.com website or leave a brief message after the tone.”

She’d stopped leaving her name. People thought September Day was a joke, and lately, she agreed. Her maiden name made it worse. Growing up with the name September January—no middle name needed—created its own kind of kid hell. But at least her parents gave up the birth-month names by the time her brother Mark came along.

The caller began to speak, quiet and determined, with an underpinning of anger. “This is Clare O’Dell again. You’re the only one that can help Tracy. Please call me back!” She left the number, and disconnected.

September wrinkled her nose. Too many pet owners expected miracles. Was Tracy a cat? A dog? What was the problem, was it new or long-term, had a veterinarian been consulted… The questionnaire saved so much time if only people would use it. She hated to ignore the calls, but most of them never followed through with the required information anyway. She made a note to include a referral name for all those frantic pet parents, though.

The cool surface of the cello would warm as she played. The Reynaud’s syndrome meant her fingers needed help staying warm even though the furnace kept frigid outside temperatures at bay. She wore light blue sweat pants, a matching top, and insulated socks but no shoes in deference to the new carpet she hoped to keep fresh. September tugged on funky hot pink knit gloves—they’d been cheap, so she’d bought half a dozen. Each fingertip poked through the cut-off portions and resembled pink paws with claws poking through. She leaned forward, and long hair matching the rich chestnut of the aged wood spilled over the instrument until she tied a ponytail over her right shoulder to keep from tangling the strings.

The familiar routine unclenched her shoulders. She breathed deeply, thumbing each string, cocking her head to judge the tone, and made small adjustments with the tuners before picking up the bow. As she drew the horsehair across the strings, the cello’s rich voice warmed the room, baritone to tenor vibrations resonating in September’s body until she became part of the music.

“Ah Melody, I’ve missed you.” She breathed the words, eyes half closed, and welcomed the slight discomfort when her tender fingertips smarted after a finger-slide shift to thumb position. They’d soon regain the string-fed calluses necessary for optimal performance. Nobody else would notice or care, but Melody deserved her best.

“Ack-ack-ack-ack-ack…” Macy prowled into the room from the adjacent kitchen, ducked under the Christmas tree and stared through cedar greenery like a jungle creature, his chocolate ears twitching with kitty criticism.

“Yeah, sure, everyone’s a critic.” September paused, arms embracing the cello, and grinned at the Maine Coon. “I’m not a big fan of your singing, either, big guy. But I’ve only got a week to get ready for the performance, so lion-cough all you want.”

She reached for the Son-Of-A-Peach oversize coffee mug on the piano bench beside her and sipped the hot beverage. The cat eyed one of the ornaments, nosing it before patting it with a white paw to make it dance. It was one of the unbreakables she’d placed on the lower branches, but September didn’t want the cat practicing potentially dangerous behaviors. “Macy, come.”

Macy’s ears swiveled forward. He left the ornament and trotted to her, and sat when she signaled him with the closed fist as he’d been taught. She rubbed the base of his tail with the back of her bow, and he responded with an elevator-butt pose. Macy mewed and stroked the length of his chocolate-furred body against September’s leg and then pawed her bow arm with sugar-dipped toes.

His claws snagged her sleeve, and she had to set down the mug before she could unhook him. “You need a claw trim.” She leaned down, and they did kitty Eskimo kisses, rubbing noses as she stared into the cat’s green eyes that looked so much like her own.

Sometimes she thought Macy could read her thoughts, too. Didn’t all pet lovers feel that way? “Here, why don’t you go scratch your log? Macy, go scratch.”

She picked up one of the many pen lights stashed around the house for the cat’s entertainment, and flicked it on. He’d follow a light beam anywhere, and it wouldn’t hurt his eyes like a laser might. It worked better at a longer distance than the retractable treat sticks she used for clicker training.

Macy followed the light beam with interest, raced across the room, and pounced on the length of cedar log that lay against the wall. “Kill it, Macy, kill it! Good boy.” He shredded the papery bark, making a mess she’d need to vacuum later, but it was worth it. “I know you’ll make me pay a treat for each claw clip. Why don’t you go find Mickey?”

He stopped and his tail drew a semaphore of disappointment in the air. She shouldn’t have said the “treat” word when none were within reach. But after a quick grooming lick to smooth fur and hurt feelings, Macy dropped to the floor and dashed back into the kitchen. September smiled when she heard his claws at the cupboard door where he stashed his favorite toy. Too late she remembered what the skreeee of the opening cupboard signaled.

Overhead, a loud THUMP shook the ceiling, the sound of a seventy-pound dog’s vault from bed-to-floor. Shadow’s scrabbling claws clattered the length of the upstairs hallway, and his paws thundered down the back stairs into the kitchen proper. He slid on the slate floor, thumping sideways into the island at the center of the room and then levitated in a rear-paw dance to reach the cat teasing from the counter.

“Shadow, settle! Leave the cat alone. ”

The black German Shepherd remained focused on Macy’s stuffed toy mouse. The cat hissed at the pup, grabbed Mickey by its one remaining ear—the other ear a victim of the dog’s gnawing—and dragged it out of reach when Shadow braced massive front paws on the counter.

The pup barked, frustration and excitement coloring the sound.

“Guys, enough!” September stood but she couldn’t risk leaving the cello unprotected with the dog so aroused.

Macy dropped his toy in the kitchen sink, the risk of a hated dunking less onerous than dog drool. But September knew that wouldn’t stop the pup.

At ten months old and still growing, Shadow easily accessed the sink. He’d grabbed a thawing pork chop from the sink two days ago. Never mind previous training as an autism service dog, Shadow had entered doggy adolescence and embraced canine delinquency with all four paws. The teasing cat made things worse.

Shadow snagged the Mickey toy and raced away with Macy in hot pursuit. The black dog loped toward September and barely skidded to a stop, nearly taking her out at the knees. She lifted the cello and turned away, sheltering the fragile instrument with her body as the dog shook and “killed” the toy.

Macy stalked forward and crouched in the kitchen doorway, back paws treading like a race car revving its engine. He launched himself at the dog, a silent flash of coffee fur that dashed beneath the dog’s tummy before rearing up on his hind legs to box Shadow’s face—but with sheathed claws. Shadow growled around the Mickey toy and wagged, big tail nearly clearing the piano bench.

The dog dropped the toy and open-mouth grappled the cat as Macy hugged his neck. Macy, still silent, retaliated with bunny-kicks from pistoning rear paws, escaped and launched himself into the middle of the Christmas tree.

“That’s enough!” September’s roar stopped the dog in his tracks, but it was too late for the tree. After teetering to and fro, it crashed to the floor, Macy leaped clear and sprinted from the music/office area to the front of the house, perhaps fearing the tree would give chase. Shadow gathered himself to follow.

“Wait. Down.” Her whip-crack voice brooked no nonsense.

Shadow dropped to the ground. He gazed longingly toward the doorway and fidgeted when Macy returned to view and washed himself with a studied nonchalance.

“Don’t even think about it.” Her disapproval dragged the dog’s attention away from the teasing cat. He squinted sideways at September with ears pressed flat and tail thumping. He scooted two feet on his belly—without getting up from the “down”—and grabbed the Mickey. The expression mimicked a doggy apology, and may well have worked on a less savvy human.

“You blew it.” She carefully set Melody down, turning the bridge of the cello toward the wall. “Yes, I know Macy teased you. And you fell for it, again. Outside. You can go outside and cool your jets.”

She grabbed up the toy on the way to the kitchen, pointing ahead so Shadow would move to the back door. Bright light spilled through the stained glass windows, courtesy of her brother Mark. She shoved the cat’s tattered plush toy back inside the cabinet and set her coffee mug on the stained glass tabletop.

Although Macy could easily stay out of dog reach via the granite counters and his favorite refrigerator perch, teasing the dog had become his game of choice. The cat knew getting the dog in trouble banished Shadow to a scary uncharted outdoor land Macy rarely wanted to visit.

Spending time outside wasn’t punishment to Shadow. It was more a break for both of them. He helped September deal with the PTSD, but she knew service dogs became emotionally drained and suffered burnout if not provided with their own downtime to recharge. It was good for her to practice being alone, too. Shadow could burn some energy sniffing out varmints. She’d probably have to hose him off, his paws anyway, before he’d be fit to return inside.

Mark’s partner, Aaron Stonebridge, had begun the garden redesign after she threatened to finish pruning with a blow torch. The dug up portion of the rose garden proved irresistible to Shadow’s digging. The feral hogs had had field day, too, and had torn out one corner of the fence.

September sighed. Shadow and Macy were bored. Wasn’t that rich? She solved other folks’ pet behavior problems, but neglected her own.

On cue, the wall phone rang again. There’d been a rash of pet runaways recently, and she’d been called to track missing dogs, cats, and in one case, a guinea pig. Shadow had loved that one after he figured out it was legal to follow the weird smell. The behavior advice requests still came through, but she’d had an equal number of crank calls and even a few death threats so now she screened everything.

September recognized the number before picking up the receiver. “Hey Combs, today’s the big day?”

She’d met Officer Jeffery Combs during a day-long nightmare after his mother’s murder a week before Thanksgiving. Instead of blaming her, as was his right, he’d become a friend.

“Yep, soon as I drop off the kids. They’re not happy, and I don’t blame them. We’d planned on another few days together. But I can’t blow off my first day back.”

Combs was one of her few friends in Heartland. She ignored hints he’d like to be more than that. Her world these days had no room for further complications.

September grabbed her coffee mug, a gift from Combs, and took a swallow. “At least they reinstated you as a detective. That’s what you wanted, right? Vindication.”

He laughed. “More likely punishment. Still waiting to find out about my new partner.” He hesitated. “We still on for tonight?”

Her forehead wrinkled. She’d put him off twice before, and couldn’t reasonably get out of it this time. “Sure, you can tell me all about your new partner—we can celebrate or bitch and moan, your choice. Anita dropped off some of her famous lasagna, and I’ve got wine. Bring beer if you want that.” She hung up the phone. She’d have to change clothes. Sweats were fine for dumping around the house, but she should make an effort to be presentable now and then. Not date-clothes—it wasn’t a date. But jeans and a nice sweater would be an improvement.

It was time she got back to a normal routine. That’s why she’d agreed to bring Melody out of retirement and play the cello for Mom’s church Christmas cantata. She sipped her coffee, not sure what constituted “normal” for her anymore.

September struggled for nearly thirty seconds and finally managed to unlock the reinforced steel door to take Shadow out. She shrugged on her coat, but didn’t bother with gloves since she still wore the cello mitts. After hooking the leash on his collar, she slipped stocking feet into garden shoes, closed the door behind them and automatically dodged one of the low-hanging wind chimes suspended outside the door. Shadow tugged toward the car, anticipating a ride.

“Nope, this way. To the roses.” He corrected himself and hung a quick left to the garden entry, his tail a happy flag.

She hugged herself in the forty-degree wind. Felt like thirty or less. The dog leaped and bounced at the gate two or three times before he managed a wriggly sit, a doggy request for the gate to be opened. “Wait.” She unhooked his leash, gratified when he didn’t move. At least he remembered some training.

The rusty gate squealed and Shadow’s nose twitched with anticipation. She gave him the release word before he lost his composure. September crossed her arms, smiling despite herself as he raced into the three-acre garden to explore. She noted the time and shivered. A twenty-minute romp would have to suffice in this weather.

She hurried back to the kitchen. Wind had pushed the door ajar a few inches—the door was a bitch to latch—and once back inside, she hip-bumped it closed. She didn’t bother with the kitchen door’s cranky lock since Shadow would need to come in shortly. She congratulated herself that the unlocked door didn’t bother her. Well, not much anyway.

September left the muddy shoes in the laundry room, and shed her coat and dropped it over her office chair before she returned to her cello. “Ah Melody, sorry for the interruption.” She took her place once more on the piano bench, embraced Melody and tried to recapture the feeling of reverie.

But before she could draw the bow across the strings, the doorbell chimed. Her shoulders hunched. Aaron wasn’t due for another twenty minutes, and he wouldn’t ring the bell. Carefully she set the cello aside, replaced the bow on the bench, and hurried to the front door to peer through the stained glass sidelight.

For a while after the recent trouble she’d had uninvited visitors, especially after she stopped answering the phone. Her family knew to call first. Strangers had seen pictures of Shadow in the paper and remained cautious of the imposing black shepherd. The ragged gunshot notch in one ear made him appear ferocious.

Nobody waited on the front stoop. The front circle drive remained deserted. Maybe a kid on a dare rang the bell to her notorious ‘house of blood.’ That’s how the local papers reported the tragedy. With Christmas next week, kids on school holiday had another week of boredom to fill.

She caught the motion of a fluttering sticker glued to the stained glass and felt cranky the ground delivery guys couldn’t be bothered to wait. They pitched the package, rang the bell, and ran like she was an ax murderer or something.

September unlocked the three deadbolts, and swung open the door. A cloud of jackdaws, black tails as long as their bodies, descended onto surrounding trees like an invasion of ants, bending limbs to breaking, their raucous cries polluting the air.

But she saw only the package sitting on the top step. The long, narrow white box boasted a yellow ribbon and bow.

Her heart hammered. She whimpered and couldn’t catch her breath. When the world tilted, September grabbed for the doorframe but fell to her knees and scooted away from the poisonous package. The yellow ribbon could mean only one thing.

He’d found her. view abbreviated excerpt only...

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