Gun Shy(32)

I gulp down a breath. Nod.

“You’ve always had this way of looking after everybody,” Pike says. “You know? I never had that.”

I brace myself over the sink. I nod again.





CHAPTER TWELVE





CASSIE





It storms on Friday.

Damon has to work during the day, and when he finally comes home, he disappears upstairs without so much as a hello. I don’t try to find him.

Sometimes he likes to be with people, and other times, he demands to be left alone.

I hear him shower and close his bedroom door around eleven. Once I know he’s asleep, I double-check all the locks in the house and turn in for the night.

Thunder wakes me. Thunder and frantic barking. I throw the covers off and reach for my thick robe and boots, slipping them on before I hurry downstairs.

I unlock the back door, expecting Rox to barrel past me into the house, but she doesn’t. “Rox!” I hiss. “Hey!”

The wind is fierce. It’s raining, cold little ice pellets that remind me of the night of the accident. I feel sick thinking about it.

I hear movement upstairs, a door opening. Shit. If Damon has to come downstairs, he’ll be pissed. He hates the dog. He loves other dogs, but this one used to belong to Leo. A painful reminder of what happened to Mom. But she’s my dog now, and she’s one thing I won’t let him take away from me. I don’t have any real friends anymore, apart from Rox, and I think that’s the only reason he lets me keep her around.

I call the dog’s name a few more times, but she totally ignores me. Jesus. I go outside, holding on to the railing as lighting flashes close by. Stupid dog. “Come here!” I yell at the dog. She’s not even looking at me, transfixed on the house. It’s like she’s barking directly into the bedrooms to get our attention.

I’m halfway to the dog when I feel someone behind me. Damon’s on the top step.

“Get inside,” he snaps at me, over the noise of the weather.

I ignore him, approaching Rox.

“Cassie! Jesus Christ, girl.” He follows me.

“She doesn’t like the weather,” I say. “She’s old and senile, Damon.”

He shrugs. “And?”

“Let me bring her inside.”

He shakes his head. He hates her. “No.”

“The garage.”

He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something, but changes his mind halfway. “One night,” he says. “One goddamn night and then I’m taking that mutt back down to their property. She’s not even yours.”

He’s threatened that countless times before; I don’t even argue. He won’t take her back. Or he will, and she’ll bound back up here to me before he’s even driven his car back to the road from Leo’s property.

Can’t keep a dog like that chained up or tell her where to stay. She’s a free spirit, probably why I like her so much.

Damon reaches down to grab her collar, and Rox, poor old cataract-riddled Rox, jumps in fright, latching her teeth on to the bit of flesh between Damon’s thumb and index finger.

He doesn’t even hesitate. Almost like he knew this was going to happen. Like he was prepared.

Damon takes his gun out of his waistband and shoots Rox right between the eyes.

I scream.

She’s dead before she hits the ground.

Everything around me dulls, slows down. I feel like I’m in one of those carnival rides that spins so fast it actually feels like you’re moving in slow-motion.

“Shit,” Damon says, as I sink to my knees, one hand on the last piece of Leo that I could touch. I can’t form words. I can’t even think. He shot my dog. My dog is dead. How am I going to tell Leo?

And then: Oh, right. I’m not going to tell him. Anything. Ever again.

“Y-you shot her.”

He looks around with an air of impatience, and his casual manner terrifies me.

“I better not get rabies from that cunt dog,” he says, studying the bite on his hand like his arm’s been amputated or something. The killing of an innocent animal doesn’t bother him. Not in the slightest. I never would’ve picked him as the kid who burned ants in the magnifying glass, the boy who threw a sack of kittens in a lake. The man who shot a dog for barking.

“Get up,” he says. “Now.”

My shock gives way to panic, coupled with disbelief. I start to cry. I’m shaking all over, from the cold and from the adrenaline.

“Why?” I whisper. “Why did you do that?”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, something akin to annoyance. Fuck him. I’m not leaving my dead dog out here to the elements. My chest hurts as I watch dark blood pool on the frozen ground beneath her still body.

“Fuck you,” I say. “I hate you!”

“For Christ’s sake, Cassandra,” he says, fisting a hand into my hair and yanking me to my feet. “Come inside.”

He drags me into the kitchen, despite my protests, despite my tears.

I break away from him; seeking comfort, seeking numbness and warmth. My eyes land on a bottle of vodka, my absolution in a bottle of Absolut. I twist the cap off, taking a slug of the good stuff and biting the inside of my cheeks as it burns all the way down. My eyes sting; my stomach reacts angrily, but I swallow it down. I drink as much as I can, onetwothree, and then Damon tugs the bottle from my grasp.