The Wife Between Us(70)

But Richard put down his paper and stood up. “That’s probably your present.”

“My present? You’re the one with a birthday coming up.”

I was a few steps behind him. I heard Richard greet someone, but his body blocked my view. Then he bent down. “Hey there, boy.”

The German shepherd was massive. I could see his shoulder muscles rolling as Richard took his leash and led him into the house, followed by the man who’d delivered the dog.

“Nellie? Meet Duke. This big guy is the best security you could ever ask for.”

The dog yawned, revealing his sharp teeth.

“And this is Carl.” Richard laughed. “One of Duke’s trainers. Sorry about that.”

“No worries, I’m used to Duke getting top billing.” Carl must have noticed my unease. “He looks fierce, but remember, he’s going to look that way to everyone else, too. And Duke knows it’s his job to protect you.”

I nodded. Duke probably weighed almost as much as I did. If he stood on his hind legs, he’d be my height.

“He spent a year at the Sherman Canine Academy. He understands a dozen commands. Here—I’ll tell him to sit.” At Carl’s word, the dog sank down on its haunches. “Up,” Carl instructed, and the dog rose fluidly.

“Try it, sweetheart,” Richard urged.

“Sit.” My voice sounded scratchy. I couldn’t believe the dog would obey, but he fixed his brown eyes on me and touched his bottom to the floor.

I averted my gaze. Rationally I knew the dog had been trained to follow orders. But hadn’t he also been trained to attack when he perceived a threat? Dogs could sense fear, I remembered, shrinking back against the wall.

I was fine around little dogs, the fluffy breeds that were common in New York City, sometimes tucked into purses or dancing along on the end of brightly colored leashes. I even stopped sometimes to offer them a pat, and I’d never minded sharing the elevator in Richard’s apartment with Mrs. Keene and her bichon frise with the matching hairstyle.

Big dogs like this one were rare in the city; apartment sizes simply didn’t make them practical. I hadn’t been near one in years.

But when I was a child, my next-door neighbors in Florida had owned two rottweilers. They were kept behind a chain-link enclosure, and whenever I rode my bike past their yard, they lunged at me and crashed into the fence as if they wanted to break through it. My dad told me they were just excited, that the dogs were friendly. But their deep, throaty barks and the sound of that rattling metal terrified me.

Duke’s unnatural stillness was even more unnerving.

“Do you want to pet him?” Carl asked. “He loves being scratched behind the ears.”

“Sure. Hey there, Duke.” I reached out and gave him a quick stroke. His black-and-brown fur was softer than I’d expected.

“I’ll go grab his supplies.” Carl headed back to his white truck.

Richard gave me a reassuring smile. “Remember what the security guy told us. Dogs are the number one deterrent to intruders. Better than any alarm system you can buy. You’ll sleep well when he’s around.”

Duke was still sitting on the floor, staring up at me. Was he waiting for me to tell him he could stand again? I’d only ever owned a cat, back when I was a child.

Carl returned, his arms full of a bag of food and a bed and bowls. “Where would you like me to set him up?”

“The kitchen’s probably best,” Richard said. “It’s through here.”

At another clipped word from Carl, the dog followed them, his big paws padding almost soundlessly on our wood floors. Carl drove off a few minutes later, leaving behind his card and a laminated list of the words Duke knew—Come. Stay. Attack. He’d explained that Duke would react to those words only when they were directed at him by Richard or me in a commanding tone.

“He’s a smart boy.” Carl had given Duke’s head a final rub. “You picked a good one.”

I’d smiled weakly, dreading the next morning when Richard would leave for work and I’d be alone with the dog who was supposed to make me feel safe.

I kept to the other side of the house for the first few days, only entering the kitchen to grab a banana or dump some food into Duke’s bowl. Carl had instructed us to walk him three times a day, but I didn’t want to fumble with the leash’s catch around Duke’s throat. So I simply opened the back door and told him to Go—another of his commands—and then I cleaned up after him before Richard came home.

On the third day, as I read in the library, I looked up and saw Duke standing silently in the entryway, watching me. I hadn’t even heard his approach. I still feared meeting his gaze—didn’t dogs interpret locked eyes as a challenge?—so I stared back at my book, wishing he’d go away. Richard, right before he went to sleep every night, took Duke for a short walk. Duke had plenty to eat, fresh water, and a comfortable bed. I had no reason to feel guilty. Duke had a great life, with everything he could possibly want.

He padded over and flopped down next to me, putting his head between his big paws. He looked up at me and sighed heavily. It was such a human sound.

I snuck a peek at him over the top of my novel and saw furrows form above his chocolate-brown eyes. He looked sad. I wondered if he was used to being around other dogs, to being surrounded by activity and noise. Our house must seem so strange to him, I thought. Tentatively I reached down and patted the spot behind his ear, the way his trainer had said Duke liked. His bushy tail thumped once, then stilled, as if he didn’t want to make too much of a commotion.