Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(8)

She shook her head. “No. I’ll take the subway.”

She is not your responsibility. Conor backed away. He needed a pretty college girl about as much as a rash. Both tended to hang around long enough to make life uncomfortable. “And there’s nobody else you can call? Do you want me to call you a cab?”

She shook her head and batted those thick lashes again. “No. I take the subway all the time. It’s fine.”

He glanced out the window. In the light of the streetlamp on the corner, a figure in a hoodie hunched against the rain. South Philly was generally safe during the day. A working-class neighborhood, people looked out for each other. Families tended to stay generation after generation. But a young girl alone at midnight . . .

“Do you want me to drive you to the station?”

“Would you do that?”

“Sure.” Because he was a giant idiot genetically incapable of minding his own business. He’d parked his car illegally in the alley. He had to move it anyway. And that guy on the corner gave off the wrong vibe.

Besides, the sooner he got her out of here, the sooner he could go to bed.

“Oh, thank you.”

“Come on. My car is out back.” Conor locked the front door to the bar and led her out into the back alley. The rain had settled into a steady, soaking drizzle. No sign of anyone or anything that shouldn’t be here.

Conor patted his pocket. “I have to run upstairs for my key. Wait here.”

But she was right behind him as he jogged up the stairs to his apartment over the bar. Conor flipped on the light. His keys were usually on the table by the door. Not there.

Zoe sidled behind him. “I didn’t want to wait in the dark by myself.”

“OK. Wait here. I have to find my keys.” Conor did a quick surface scan. Nothing. The kitchen counters were clear. In the bedroom, he went to the nightstand, moved some books, and shuffled some papers before finding his key ring on the dresser under a stack of junk mail. When he came out of the bedroom, Zoe was standing in the kitchen leafing through an advertisement circular.

“Sorry it took so long.” Conor motioned toward the door. “Let’s go.”

He grabbed an umbrella on the way out, then put Zoe into the twenty-year-old Porsche he’d bought as a junker and spent most of last year restoring. The SEPTA station was only eight blocks down. He pulled to the curb behind a transit bus.

“’Night.” She got out of the car and turned away.

“Good night.” Remembering when his sister had been assaulted in a parking garage years ago, Conor glanced in his rearview mirror. Standing on the sidewalk, digging something out of her purse, Zoe looked so young and vulnerable. Damn it. He jumped out of the car and ran around the back end. “Wait.” He tapped her shoulder.

She whirled, jumping backward, her eyes wide in alarm. She pressed a hand to her chest. “God, you scared me.”

“I’m sorry. Are you sure I can’t get you a cab?”

“No, you’ve done enough.” She backed up a step.

He dug a business card out of his wallet. “Do me a favor? Give me a quick call when you get home.”

She took the card. “Sure. Thanks again.”

A horn blared. His car was blocking a cab. The driver leaned over the passenger seat and gestured between Conor and the Porsche with irritation.

“Be careful.” He returned to his car and pulled out into the street.

And that was that.

He drove back to the bar and found a parking spot down the block. The guy in the hoodie was gone when Conor circled the bar and went into the alley. At the base of his apartment steps, a faint whimper carried over the sound of traffic on Oregon Avenue. He turned his head and listened. Another thin whine emanated from the darkness under the stairwell. Crouching, he squinted into the shadows.

A dog cringed in the space between the brick building and the wooden stairs. Plenty of strays roamed the city streets, but something about this animal’s posture was off. He ran upstairs for a flashlight and a couple slices of cheese. Back outside, he shined the light into the dark crevice. It was a pit bull or a pit mix, blue-gray in color, and injured.

“You hungry?” Conor squatted and tossed a piece of cheese a few feet in front of the dog. The dog shuffled forward, sniffing the air, body tense and postured for flight as it licked at the aged provolone.

Numerous old scars, fresh cuts, and oozing abrasions crisscrossed the dog’s skin, mostly around its head and face. A meaty collar encircled the neck, and a short piece of heavy chain hung from it, all signs that the pit bull could be from a dog-fighting operation—and a bad one at that. The poor beast was razor thin. Pit bulls were naturally muscular dogs, but this one’s skin was stretched taut over visible sinew and bone. How the hell could a skinny dog fight? Not that this one looked like much of a fighter. There wasn’t anything aggressive about its posture.

Raindrops splattered on the asphalt. Thunder crashed, and a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky. The dog flinched, cringing toward the stairwell.

He should go upstairs. Picking up strays was not his responsibility, and with his current luck, the dog would bite him. He’d spent the last eighteen years of his life helping to raise his younger siblings. Now his family was settled. Business was up. Some debts had been paid. Conor finally felt like he could relax.

Maybe he’d take a vacation.