Page 6 of 12 Days of Mistletoe

“The only thing I’m admitting is that you are a rule-following bozo who knows nothing!”

I’m not a bozo. I know Gran has made no arrangements with her—or she would have told me about them. Besides, didn’t she just concede to guilt?

“You—” I begin, only to have the woman interrupt me.

“I am adog walker.”

For the first time since I knocked on that siren’s door, I falter. “A dog walker?”

“Yes. Adog walker.” Her jaw clenches.

“Well, those dogs aren’t allowed in here either.”

“I know that, Sherlock. I’m just saying, maybe you saw one of them or something. I don’t know. But I’d love for you to stop harassing me.”

I never saw her with a dog. I’ve never seen her before this very minute. Iheardthe animal from my downstairs apartment. She lives directly above me.

Still, my head spins and I question everything.

Maybe I did imagine it all. Or maybe she brought one of her clients up here once and is afraid to say so. No dog has come running out to greet me. Wouldn’t a dog have come running with a knock on the door? My childhood pup, Max,would never have been able to contain his excitement with a visitor at the door. Or maybe she paid an obscene amount of money to train her dog to stay hidden just to be able to deceive her landlord and live here in a dog-free zone.

I swallow. Cherry Plum is a nice place, but it’s not overly fancy or priced extreme. That’s one thing Gramps insisted on: a nice,affordableplace for folks like them. Although, by the time he passed away, his small investment to help others have a nice place to live had made him quite a bit of money. Still, he never lost sight of his cause.

I miss him. Especially during the holidays. My mother can be overwhelming, and my grandparents always made her over-excited love a little more bearable.

I stand straight and peer around her and into the apartment. “I’m not trying to harass anyone.”

Her brows lift, but she doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to; her silence says she feels harassed.

What if… all this time, I’ve been wrong. What if…

“Goodbye, Mr. Eaton,” Bonnie Miller says, just as a reddish something comes into view behind her.

I can’t make out what thesomethingis, though, and now she’s closed the door. It could be that she’s entertaining a short, red-headed friend, or she could have a big fat rat problem.

Or it could be adog.

FIVE

elliot

I setmy cell on the bathroom counter and adjust the red tie my mother is forcing me to wear for family pictures. We’re cutting the yearly Christmas card photo pretty close this year, but she’ll have her assistant print them and have them all mailed out before the weekend.

Quinten: So… now you don’t think there’s a dog?

I drop my tie to my chest—Mom will just readjust it anyway—and pick up my cell.

Me: I don’t know what to think. I was sure. Then I wasn’t. And then I saw something.

Quinten: So there is a dog.

Me: I think so.

Me: Maybe.

Me: I honestly don’tknow at this point.

Quinten: It’s the girl. You always lose it around pretty girls.

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