Her Last Day (Jessie Cole #1)(28)

It was two o’clock by the time Jessie stepped outside and walked down the block toward home to check on Higgins. A few minutes later, she slipped the key into the lock on her front door when she heard someone call her name from across the street. Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed a tall, broad-shouldered man heading her way. She recognized him immediately.

Ben Morrison in the flesh. He appeared taller than the six foot three specified during her Internet search yesterday. His hair was longer, too, pulled back with a rubber band at his nape. She could see the scarring from third-degree burns on the left side of his face and neck. Part of his left ear was missing. The skin was pulled so tight she could see the formation of muscle and bone beneath.

“You must be Ben Morrison,” she said, offering her hand as he approached.

His fingers were as big as sausages, his handshake firm. She could feel the hard texture of his skin on the palm of his hand where he’d been burned.

“Sorry I’m late,” he told her. “I just pulled up when I saw you crossing the street. Is this where you live?”

Although she wasn’t the trusting sort and didn’t usually invite strangers into her home, she was worried about Higgins. She was also interested to know what Ben Morrison had to say about Sophie. Besides, she thought fleetingly, he was a well-known crime reporter in the area, and a family man. She opened the door wider. “I need to check on the dog. You’re welcome to come in.”

He nodded and followed her inside. As they walked up the stairs, she told him about Higgins and the hit-and-run.

When they reached the top of the stairs, they both stopped and stared. The place looked as if it had been ransacked. The synthetic stuffing had been removed from the couch and was littered about the floor, making it look as if it had snowed inside her house. An empty cereal box and assorted garbage made a trail from the kitchen.

Cecil was napping on the windowsill.

Higgins was nowhere to be seen, but Jessie followed the path of chewed-on shoes and debris through the hallway and into her bedroom. “Higgins,” she said. He was lying in a corner of her closet. He gave her a guilty look. Although there was a small fenced-in area in the backyard, it had been too hot to leave the dog outside. Instead she’d set up a place in the kitchen, complete with newspapers, blanket, water, and food. She’d used furniture to block his exit.

Jessie looked at Ben Morrison and raised both arms. “You said you wanted to do a story about me and my family. Well, this is my life in a nutshell. Chaos. Come on,” Jessie said to the dog. “Let’s take you outside.”

Higgins growled as she leaned over to pick him up.

“Here,” Ben said. “Let me take him outside for you.”

She backed away. “Be my guest. I’ll grab his leash and a plastic bag.”

Twenty minutes later, Jessie had picked up most of the garbage scattered about and was shoving the last of the stuffing back into the couch when Ben returned with Higgins. She used duct tape to cover the torn fabric, then held up the tape and said, “My go-to repair tool.”

He smiled. “I can see that. I took Higgins around the neighborhood,” he told her. “He’s basically walking on three legs, but overall I think he’ll make a quick recovery.”

“Thank you for doing that.”

“I’m sure you’ve already figured out that this dog has been abused. He’s fearful and untrusting, and I think I know why he seems to have a problem trusting you specifically.”

His statement took her by surprise. She straightened and plunked her hands on her hips. “Why is that?”

“There’s a lot of foot traffic out there, but the only person he showed aggression toward was a brown-haired woman who was about your size. He had no problem with men, children, or other dogs. My guess is he associates his abuse with petite, dark-haired women.”

“Interesting.”

“My wife and I adopted an abused Labrador when we were first married. He was afraid of small children. We did some investigating and found out he’d been raised with children who kicked him and threw rocks at him. Higgins,” he said, petting the dog, “got it much worse than that. He still has the scars to prove it.”

“I thought those patchy spots were from malnutrition,” she said.

“Some of them are, but if you look closely at his backside, you can see he’s been whipped. Probably with a belt. He also has scars that appear to be burn marks, most likely from cigarettes.”

She dropped her arms to her sides. “That’s horrible.” She wanted to go to Higgins, but it was easy to see that he was truly fearful of her. “How did you help your dog recover?”

“Patience, time, and lots of love.” He removed the leash. “Where should I put this?”

She took it from him and put it aside. She then led Higgins into the kitchen to give him his pills and some food and water. He ate half the food and then plopped down on the blanket, exhausted.

“Go ahead and have a seat,” Jessie told Ben.

She brought him a glass of cold water and then took a seat across from him. “I need to be straight with you. I’ve thought about what you said about wanting to do a story on my family, and I’m not sure it would be a good idea.”

Before he could respond, she added, “My niece, Olivia, recently started high school, and I’m not sure how I feel about her mother’s life being put out there again for public consumption.”