Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(10)

Sensing the worst was over, the dog stretched out on her belly, nose resting on her outstretched paws. She blinked up at him with dark, liquid eyes. Conor packed up his first-aid supplies and washed his hands. “You won’t destroy the place, will you?”

Not that there was much to destroy. Conor lived a spartan life. He’d never been one to accumulate stuff. His younger brother, Danny, had moved out last spring, leaving the place emptier than ever. But the dog seemed content.

“Are you hungry?” A few slices of cheese didn’t seem like enough for a dog of her size. He pulled a carton of eggs out of the fridge and scrambled a half dozen. While they cooled, he checked the dog’s cuts. “Better. Most of them aren’t bleeding anymore.”

He served up dinner. The dog shuffled over, sniffed, and nibbled at the food while keeping one skittish eye fixed on Conor. Maybe she’d eat when she relaxed.

“Maybe I should block you in here for the night.” Not that he thought the dog would hurt him. In general, pit bulls didn’t deserve the bad reputation they’d acquired, and this one acted downright submissive. No doubt she’d been on the losing end of whatever fight she’d been forced into. But the dog probably had fleas.

“OK, then I’m going to bed. You stay here in the kitchen.” He blocked the doorway with a low bookcase. “Don’t give me that face. You’re fed, and you have a roof over your head. You should be happy.”

He stripped off his clothes and took a quick shower. As he eased onto the bed, he checked his phone on his nightstand. No call from Zoe. Maybe she wouldn’t even bother. Maybe she’d just toss his card in the nearest trash can. A faint whine sounded from the kitchen. Conor rolled over and pulled the pillow over his ear. Would the teen with the knife be back, or would he write off the dog and pick up another, since there was no shortage of stray pit bulls in the city?

Tonight had been a disaster. He’d had to intervene between the girl and her drunken boyfriend, but risking his life for a stray dog hadn’t been his smartest move.

He must have dozed off, because a shift in the mattress startled him awake. A hot waft of air crossed his face. Wait. Half-asleep, confusion ruled. He’d driven the brunette home, right?

He rolled over. Three inches from his nose, the skinny dog stared down at him, panting.

“You were supposed to sleep in the kitchen. Guess my barricade wasn’t high enough.”

His phone vibrated on the nightstand. He picked it up and read the unfamiliar number on the screen. Zoe? “Hello.”

“Um, I’m almost at my place. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” The line went dead. Conor set it back on the nightstand, relieved. He hadn’t thought she’d actually call.

The dog licked his face. He put a hand up and scratched behind one of her missing ears. A scab had opened up on the side of her face during the night, and blood matted the fur under her eye. “You’re not the kind of girl I usually go for, but I guess we have that rough-around-the-edges thing in common.”

The stub of her tail swept back and forth across the sheets. She moved to the other side of his king-size bed, turned around three times, and curled up with her head on his extra pillow.

“Ah, the hell with it.” Reaching across the bed, he rested a hand on the dog’s side. She sighed contentedly and closed her eyes, her protruding ribs rising and falling under his bruised fingers. He’d avoided two potentially dangerous situations tonight. Risking a few fleas seemed minor in comparison. One of these days, his hero complex was going to get him in trouble.





4


My mother always justified my curfew by saying nothing good ever happened after midnight. A clichéd but accurate statement. Take tonight. I knew what was going to happen, but the slim brunette on the sidewalk, shoulders hunched against the October rain, didn’t know that her life was nearly over.

I pulled up to the curb, lowered the passenger window, and leaned across the seat. “Need a ride?”

Startled, she pivoted, bending at the waist to look into the car. Recognition crossed her face. “OK.”

She got into the car—and sealed her fate.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Home,” she said.

“I have to make a stop to pick up some weed.” I made a right. “Want to come along?”

“Sure.”

I knew she would. We’d gotten high together the week before.

I drove to the carefully selected location, a brick row home in North Kensington. The units on either side had been demolished. This one should have been razed as well. Its blackened brick exterior flaked. Tall weeds and strewn garbage covered the yard. Before stopping, I cruised the neighborhood. The surrounding blocks were more of a war zone than a place where people lived. I checked the dark street in both directions. There was no one in sight. Below evenly spaced streetlamps, yellow puddles of light glittered on wet blacktop. Drizzle coated my windshield in a light but continuous film.

So far, so good.

I parked at the curb, not worried about the car being seen. The vehicle was a nondescript sedan, and I changed the license plates often, picking from a pool of stolen plates accumulated just for the purpose. Flipping up the hood of my jacket and tugging on gloves, I reached for the door handle.

She hesitated, her eyes sweeping the darkness. “Are you sure this is safe?”