Page 102 of One Wrong Move

My name is written on it in large, scrawling letters. No stamps.

“Harper…” he says and bends to pick it up. “It’s heavy. Whatever it is.”

I reach for the envelope, and he hands it to me almost reluctantly, as if there might be some kind of hidden danger inside. I open it up and tip the contents out.

A key chain. And a note.

“‘Harper,’” I read. “‘I have to go to the emergency room after a little accident at home. I’ve given the paramedic this note to drop at yours. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Can you take care of Quincy and Stanley for me? I will forever be in your debt.’ Oh, it’s from Richard! This must be his key.”

Nate’s voice is dark. “Your neighbor friend?”

“Yes. God, I hope he’s okay! I wish I could text him. We never exchanged phone numbers.” It’s easy to picture Richard and his formal manner, and how he’d been forced to ask the EMT to walk over here with the letter. The dogs would be barking excitedly with all the new people. “The dogs! They might have been alone since yesterday, depending on when he left this. We have to go.”

“Richard,” Nate mutters. But he follows behind me. “Is he… do you think he’s very ill?”

“He’s always seemed healthy to me. But you know, at that age, I suppose anything might happen. I hope he hasn’t taken a fall at home…” I’m already up the next stoop, key in hand. “Let’s get the boys. Poor Richard.”

Nate’s voice is hollow behind me. “At his age?”

“Yes. He’s in his late seventies.”

“Oh,” he says. “Right. I thought he was… younger.”

“He’s your next-door neighbor!”

“I don’t know my neighbors.”

“Well, he certainly knows you. And he told me that you have a very beautiful vintage Aston Martin.” I get the door open and I’m greeted immediately by the two dachshunds. Quincy’s tail wags slightly side-to-side, like the distinguished pup he is, compared to Stanley’s helicopter movements.

“I’ll leave a note with my phone number… we have to take them home. Oh, I wish I could call him.”

“Right. Shit. Yeah… I can pick this one up.” It takes us a few minutes to find their leashes hanging on a hook in the hallway and to make it back into Nate’s house. The difference between the two hallways feels stark. One is expertly and modernly designed; the other felt lived in, with slightly yellowed wallpaper and an oriental carpet.

We’re left standing in Nate’s living room, with the two dogs sniffing the new place thoroughly, scoping out their surroundings.

“This is okay, isn’t it?” I ask. “We have to help Richard, and Quincy and Stanley are very well-behaved gentlemen.”

“I think the brown one just peed on my rug.”

“Okay, so they have incontinence issues. Gentlemen over a certain age often do.” I bend to scoop up Quincy. His floppy ears are silky, and his little body is surprisingly warm. “It’s very ill-mannered of you to point that out.”

“Harper,” Nate says. “If we’re going to… babysit these two hot dogs, we need supplies. I don’t have a single thing for pets in this house.”

“I know. I’ve already made a mental list.”

He runs a hand through his hair. Chuckles dryly, but then he just shrugs. “You know, I used to live a very orderly life here before you moved in. The house was always quiet. No near-nude women on the second floor landing, no meal prep containers in the fridge, and definitely no dogs.”

I smile sheepishly. “I know. Sorry about that. I could start looking for another place, you know, if you?—”

“No,” he says. Bends down to pet Stanley, who is fighting with the fringe of the living room rug. “Never, Harper.”

Nate

Hot water sluices over my head and down my back, and the steam is making my breathing heavier. Thank God for this shower. When I bought this place, installing overhead showerheads in every bathroom had been a priority. The bathtubs remain. Large. Luxurious. Unused. I’ve never gotten into that habit. Never understood the appeal of baths.

I brace a hand against the tiled wall and let the fantasies invade. Only they’re not just fantasies these days.

Harper had been in my arms.

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