Finlay Donovan Is Killing It(Finlay Donovan #1)(48)

“Hello?” The attendant dragged her attention from the screen. “My children and I are interested in adopting a dog,” I said. “We were wondering if we could look around.”

“Sure. But don’t let the children put their hands inside the enclosures. The hinges are self-closing and they might get pinched. If you see a dog you like, let me know, and I’ll have a staff member set up a visitation room for you.”

She pressed a button under her desk. The sound of the buzzer made me shudder. All the plexiglass and bars felt a little too much like the ones where Georgia worked. All I wanted was to find a clue to Patricia’s whereabouts—to find her before the police or the mafia managed to—so I could figure out who killed Harris, find proof of my innocence, and go home.

Dogs stood on their hind legs against the sides of their kennels to bark at us as we shuffled the kids into the deafening room. I could hardly hear Delia’s squeals of delight as she hopped from door to door inspecting each dog. She paused, kneeling in front of one of the enclosures.

The dog huddling in the back corner of the cage was small with shaggy tangles and eyes as aching and desperate as my daughter’s.

“Would you like to pet him?” asked a voice behind us.

“Can I, Mommy?” she asked with a pleading look as the young volunteer knelt beside her. He fished a set of keys from his pocket. He was gangly and tall, with unruly curls and watery blue eyes. I recognized him immediately from the team photo on Patricia’s Facebook page. HELLO. MY NAME IS AARON was printed on his name tag.

“Sure,” I said, “if Aaron says it’s all right.” Vero and I locked eyes over his head. She must have recognized him from Patricia’s Facebook photos, too.

Delia clapped as he thumbed through his ring of keys and unlocked the crate. The dog whimpered, curling deeper into his enclosure as Aaron slipped the leather belt from the loops around his waist. Careful not to startle the dog, he wedged it into the hinge, propping the kennel door open. Then he reached inside his pocket and put a dog treat in Delia’s hand. He sat on the floor, patting the space beside him. She sat quietly, following Aaron’s lead, holding the treat out in front of her.

“This one’s special,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper over the howls and yelps from the other cages. “His name’s Sam. He’s a little shy, so we have to be really gentle with him and help him feel safe. Can you do that?”

Delia nodded.

The dog’s nostrils fluttered out from the shadow of his kennel. He dipped his head, inching forward, his ears pulled flat and his tail tucked between his legs. Aaron whispered to Delia, encouraging her to be patient. That the dog would come to her when he knew it was safe.

Delia sucked in a shallow breath when the dog finally poked his head from the crate, his nose extended toward the treat. Slowly, he approached her, taking it gently in his mouth. Distracted by the chewy morsel, he didn’t object when Aaron lifted him and settled him in Delia’s arms.

Zach started to fuss, reaching for the cages. Vero bounced him on her hip, giving me a pointed look as she carried him away, jutting her chin toward Aaron as she wandered from view.

“What happened to Sam?” I asked, noting the small cast on the dog’s hind leg.

“Sam was a rescue.” Aaron smiled as he watched Delia stroke Sam’s back. “I found him about a few weeks ago, caught up in his own chains. Sam’s sweet. He’s just a little anxious. Nothing a loving home won’t fix. Rescues make great companions.” He reached for the clipboard hanging beside him on the wall. “Speaking of which, we ask all of our adopting families to fill out an application.” He passed me the clipboard and a pen.

While Delia played with Sam, I stared awkwardly at the questionnaire. The last thing I wanted was a record of my visit here, but it might seem suspicious if I refused. Aaron smiled politely, trying not to be obvious as he checked the time on his phone.

I started filling out the form, putting Theresa’s and Steven’s names and address in the blanks. It seemed fitting, since getting a dog had been Steven’s idea, and he’d promised Delia it could live with them.

Delia giggled at my feet as Sam showered her with kisses, eager for another treat. She cooed in the dog’s ear, fussing over his injuries. No wonder Patricia spent so much time here. It probably made her feel good to care for these animals who had been abandoned or unloved or saved from horrible owners. It probably felt safe to be around people like Aaron, who were gentle and kind, after being chained to a man like Harris for half her life. If this shelter was her safe place, and these people she worked with were the closest thing she had to a family, wouldn’t she have confided in someone here?

I handed the form back to Aaron. “Last time we visited, I spoke with a woman named Patricia about a particular dog—it had a black spot around its eye and mottled fur, about this big,” I said, gesturing with my arms as I described the dog I’d seen her holding in the photo.

“You mean Pirate?”

“Yes! That was his name. I don’t see him here. Do you have a number where I can reach her to ask about him?”

“No, I wish I did,” he said, his face falling. “We’ve all tried calling her. Patricia didn’t come in last week, and no one’s heard from her since. As for Pirate, he and his sister, Molly, were adopted together a few weeks ago. I’m sorry.”