Page 163 of The Keeper

Both made sacrifices in order to protect me. Neither one asked if I wanted or needed their protection.

Charlotte lost her life as a result.

I couldn’t bear to think what Xavier could lose.

A soft whining broke through my unpleasant thought process. I looked down at the scared puppy sitting in my lap. His questioning eyes stared at my fisted hand.

I let the ring fall gently against my clavicle and slowly pet the dog. He crawled up to nestle into my chest and licked my chin.

“Is this better?” I smiled, holding him.

I’d taken the day off from work to spend time at the Paws for Help Sanctuary. It’s been way too long since I’ve donated my time to help socialize the puppies. And being here helped me feel closer to my sister. Or at least the version of her I thought I knew.

She loved this shelter.

It’s small and run by a husband and wife team whose only goal is to provide comfort and loving homes for abandoned dogs. Many of the animals here were either dumped in parking lots or left to fend for themselves on the street. A few came from hoarded homes in other states, but this facility wasn’t equipped to handle too many serious cases. That’s one of the many reasons why I donated every year and appreciated whatever Noah chose to contribute from his fundraiser.

The socializing room was quiet and comfortable, unlike the kennel area. Don’t get me wrong. These animals were treated like royalty. They each had their own private enclosure with beds, blankets, toys, water, and food. But there’s only so much one can do with scared, barking dogs living in an echo chamber.

A puppy like the one I’m sitting with doesn’t go in the main area. He stays in a private room with other new arrivals, in his own kennel, until he’s either adopted or old enough to go with the other dogs. As much as Charlotte loved helping the animals, she’d always tell me how sad it made her to see them locked in cages, waiting for someone to rescue them.

I ended up spending a couple hours with the puppies before making my way back to the city. For some reason, I chose to drive by my childhood home. The last time I came here was the day I turned the keys over to the realtor to sell it. It was my junior year at Dartmouth. My mother moved to South Carolina the summer after my freshman year, and my dad had been in Greece since I graduated from high school.

As with everything else Chase family related, I cleaned up the mess left behind.

I pulled up to the curb and stopped, staring at the gray colonial house. Too many memories flooded back too fast.

“This was a terrible idea,” I muttered, putting the car in drive.

A few hours later I sipped on a happy hour cocktail with Hannah.

Spring totally flew the coop and dropped summer on all of us. Not that I’m complaining. But it would be nice to sit outside on this terrace and not feel like my legs were melting into the chair. Even the air was thick with the summer sounds of conversations and traffic and music.

“You doing okay over there?” Hannah asked.

“Great,” I answered a little too cheerfully before swallowing my overly sweet excuse for a drink. “Does this place serve anything that doesn’t require a gallon of syrup?”

Hannah’s gentle laugh complimented her pretty smile. “We’ll get you something more robust.”

Her phone chimed and I knew without question it was Bennet. He texted her like clockwork. It was close to eleven in London, the night before a huge game. I knew that, too, because I watched every televised Royal City match I could find.

Pining much? You know it, buddy.

“Bennet says hello,” Hannah said quietly, watching me fiddle with the ring on my necklace. “Still nothing from Xavier?”

“Who?” I finished my drink.

“That’s the shitty sweet drink talking,” she scolded.

“Yeah, well, maybe you could put in a good word with your Dom to have my so-called boyfriend send me a sign that he’s still alive or something.”

My nails drummed on the empty glass. Hannah grabbed it from me and put it out of reach.

“What’s around your neck?” she asked, eyebrow arched.

“I’m not in the mood, Hannah,” I snapped.

“Tough shit. That,” she pointed, “is a sign he loves you. A visible, tangible sign that you fidget with all day.”

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