Never Let You Go(63)

“Can I use your bathroom?”

When I’m finished with the laundry, Jared’s not in the living room yet. I wait on the couch until he comes down the hall, then I say, “I have to grab my clothes for later.”

“Okay. I’ll warm up my car.”

I walk down the hall to my bedroom, noticing that my mom left her door open. She’s been trying to keep it closed so Angus doesn’t climb onto her bed. I shut the door.

I pack my things and grab my makeup from the bathroom. I’m not sure how the other girls are going to dress, so I bring a few options, my favorite black tunic I always wear with purple leggings, couple of skirts. Before I leave the house, I set the alarm and lock the door.

Jared’s car is running, but he’s not inside. I wait by the passenger door, confused. Finally he comes around from behind the house. “Sorry,” he says with a sheepish smile. “I had to pee.”

“Again?”

“Nerves.” He’s looking really embarrassed now.

“What are you nervous about?”

“You,” he says. “I want you to have fun tonight.”

I’ve never had anyone my age care so much about what I think. It makes me feel excited and pleased and confident. I smile. “Then I guess you better be really nice to me.”

“I plan on it.”

He opens my door with a flourish and I slide behind the seat, ignoring my phone, which is ringing in my pocket again. I’m not going to let my dad ruin this night for me.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


LINDSEY



I slowly push my cart around the produce section at the grocery store, my shoulders and hands aching after cleaning two houses. They’re both having parties tonight and were willing to pay extra. I’d rather have gone straight home, but we ran out of milk and coffee this morning. I drank almost a whole pot trying to wake up from a restless night. Why was Marcus asking about Greg? It was as though he was trying to find out if we were going to break up, but that shouldn’t matter to him—unless he has feelings for me. The idea makes me pause in the middle of the aisle, staring at a row of salad dressings. Do I want him to have feelings for me?

I think about calling Jenny, but part of me is afraid to hear what she has to say. She might tell me that I’m way off base, or encourage me, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that. I know she likes Greg—she thinks he’s a fun guy who doesn’t take himself, or life, too seriously—but she also likes Marcus. She told me once after a meeting that some very lucky woman was going to end up with him one day. I’d said I’d be happy for him, and she gave me a look.

I really don’t feel like going to the New Year’s Eve party at the church tonight when I’m so confused about my conversation with Marcus. I wish I hadn’t agreed to bring an appetizer. I planned on making an artichoke dip, but when I wheel past a display case of assorted spreads and dips, I toss a couple into my cart and add a bag of chips and a tray of vegetables. Screw it. I’ll put them in a nice dish and no one will ever know the difference.

My arms full of grocery bags, I walk into my house and dump them on the counter. Angus usually meets me at the door. Maybe he’s sleeping in Sophie’s bed.

“Angus?” I call out. “I’m home!” Silence. I walk down the hallway. He still doesn’t come running. Did Sophie leave him outside? Tentacles of fear begin to wind their way around my ankles, pulling me faster into the house. Finally I find him sprawled on the couch in the living room, his legs hanging over the edge and his head on the pillow. “There you are!”

He doesn’t open his eyes or lift his head. I rush over to him—and step in something wet. Vomit. Now I notice the other piles of vomit on the rug. I place my hand on Angus’s rib cage, and feel a surge of relief when his chest rises. I press my fingertips under his armpit, remembering something about that being where you check for a dog’s pulse. It seems really fast, but I’m not sure what a normal heart rate is for dogs.

“Angus?” I give him a gentle shake. When he still doesn’t wake up, I grab my cell out of my pocket, look up the number for the emergency vet clinic, and describe his symptoms. “He’s thrown up everywhere.” I take a closer look at one of the piles. “There are hunks of meat.” I crouch down and notice a tiny white fragment. “I think he ate some pills.”

“Better bring him in right away—and the vet will want to see the pills.”

“He’s huge. I don’t know how I’m going to get him into my car.”

“Can you make a stretcher on a blanket? Or ask a neighbor for help?”

“I’ll try a blanket.” I run into the kitchen, grab a plastic bag, and collect a few spoonfuls of vomit. Then I take a quick check around the house. What did he get into? No cupboards are open. Someone had to have drugged him. Not someone. Andrew.

It takes all my strength to slide Angus onto my homemade stretcher and drag him outside, then down the stairs. I wrench my back trying to lift him into the car. I sprint to my neighbor’s house through the woods. I’m hot and sweaty and frantic. I imagine poison spreading through Angus’s body every second, flowing into his liver and kidneys and brain. I can’t let him die.

My neighbor, a retired schoolteacher named Tom, has a passion for fishing and is thankfully outside installing downriggers on his boat. When he looks up, I shout, “I need help!” over the noise of his tools. He follows me back to my house and we load Angus into my car.