Page 3 of High Intensity

“Guess she got a better offer, she’s in the community hall. But…” she adds with an over-the-top flirty hair flip. “I’m free for lunch.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” I tell her with a wink.

Marcela is a happily married woman with a couple of cute kids, and the flirting is all in good fun. She’d never step out, and I’d never step in.

I head down a different hallway, leading to the communal areas. When I walk into the main hall, I spot my mother’s wheelchair right away. Hard to miss since she’s half obscured by a dog the size of a small horse cuddled up to her.

“She made a new friend.”

I turn around to find David Gentry, the home’s administrator, standing behind me.

“I see that. Since when do you allow pets in here?”

“Certified therapy animals are allowed,” he clarifies. “Board approved and all. Your mother was instrumental in getting that approval.”

I vaguely recollect her telling me about a resident petition she was having everyone sign last month, feeling a little bad I was only listening with half an ear at the time. Despite her smallstature, and her failing health, my mother is still a force to be reckoned with.

I turn my head to look at her and catch her eye.

“Lucas! Come meet Peanut.”

Who the hell would call an oversized animal like that Peanut?

The dog lifts its head off my mother’s lap when I walk over. That’s when I notice it’s missing an eye. The animal looks scary enough and I’m sure could snap my mother in half with those jaws, but it seems friendly, its tail thumping the linoleum floor as I approach. Bending down, I kiss my mother’s papery cheek.

“Peanut?”

Mom beams up at me. “Isn’t she precious?”

Precious is not exactly the term I would’ve come up with for the less than attractive dog, but she’s definitely sweet, leaning her weight against my leg and staring up at me with one adoring eye as I rub her head.

“Good girl,” I mumble at her.

The next moment the hair on my neck stands on end when I hear someone walk up behind me, and say, “It’s almost time to go, Peanut.”

I don’t need to turn around to know who the owner of that voice is, but I don’t have a choice when my mom speaks up.

“Oh, Jillian, I’d like you to meet my son, Lucas.”

I meet those pretty green eyes, now sparkling with amusement. Of course a dog named Peanut would belong to this woman. She named her cadaver dog, Emo, after all.

Hell, I knew she recently moved to the area—Sloane mentioned it more than once—but I wasn’t expecting to run into her at my mother’s assisted-living home. That’s a little too close for comfort.

“So youdohave a first name; Lucas, huh?”

“You already know each other?” Mom looks back and forth between us.

“We do. How are you doing, Jillian?”

She adjusts the small furball she’s holding in her arms. “Good, thanks.”

I turn to my mother to explain, “Jillian and I met working on a search last summer.”

Despite my immediate attempt to identify our connection as a professional one only, I see Mom’s mind already at work behind the gleam in her eyes.

Great.

“Is that so? Well, what a happy coincidence this is then,” she says in a chipper voice and with a satisfied smirk on her face.

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