Page 25 of Playing with Fyre

It’s relief, and just a little bit of hope.

I take out my phone, make as if I’m typing out a message. “Still in Nebraska?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Peter says through a rueful huff. “You know Geneva?”

“I don’t,” I say, not even looking up. “But I’m sure they do.”

Chapter Sixteen

Fyre

Abitter wind chases me into my house while my chocolate Lab, Arrow, howls and tries to lick me to death. The instant I snap my fingers, though, she falls into a sit, her tail sweeping the hardwood floors with subdued enthusiasm.

“Good to see you too, beautiful,” I murmur, as I unwrap my dark scarf from around my throat and hang it up on the coat stand. My trench coat goes over it, and I make a mental note to get it to the dry cleaners tomorrow.

It’s black, so blood doesn’t show, but I’d prefer not to think about how much of Peter Monroe’s blood I’m walking around with.

I pat my thigh through my jeans as I start down the hallway, and Arrow darts after me like her namesake, her toenails click-clacking on the wood.

“Did you eat already?” I enter my kitchen and head straight for the kettle. It’s two in the morning, but I’m too wired to go to bed. I’ll most likely not sleep at all tonight—no point in trying.

But I’m frozen to the bone, grimy, and could use a hot toddy and a shower.

Arrow nuzzles my hand until I take her box of treats off the shelf and feed her a biscuit. She slobbers over my hand—no amount of training can reduce the amount of saliva a dog produces, I’ve found—and stares up at me with her big, beautiful eyes.

“I’m freezing,” I tell her. “We’re not going for a walk. You’ll have to wait until the morning.”

She sits and lifts a paw, panting quietly.

“Christ,” I mutter, shrugging my shoulders inside my sweater. “You’ll be the death of me yet, you mutt.”

Arrow dashes straight to the kitchen door, staring up at where her leash hangs from a hook on the wall.

She’s too intelligent by half, but I wouldn’t want it any other way. I’ve had her since she was a pup.

I’ll never forget the day I found her. Sometimes I look at her and all I can see is a dirty, bedraggled dog limping toward me out of the dark.

I thump my fist into the wood beside the door, and Arrow shifts her eyes from the leash to me, her tail slowing a little. She barks once, loud, as if to scold me for having bad thoughts.

Ruffling her ears, I slot the leash into her collar and lead her out of the kitchen door and down the cobbled path heading to the front gate.

When we get back from our walk I’m even colder than before. The wind hasn’t let up one bit, and I can taste the promise of snow in the air.

I let Arrow back inside our home and go to turn on the kettle again. Arrow’s nails click on the floor as she heads straight for our bedroom.

She’s getting on in years, so I’m not in the least surprised when she’s already snoring on the bottom of my queen-sized bed.

I shake my head and turn on the shower.

As I’m stepping out, a gust of wind hits the bathroom window. And, with it, a burst of sludgy snow.

I stare at it for a moment, and then my lips curl up in a smile.

“Guess what, Arrow?” I say as I walk back into the room, rubbing a towel through my hair. She stops snoring, but doesn’t look in my direction. She doesn’t know if the news is important enough for me to disturb the comfortable-as-fuck position she found.

“We’re going hunting.”

Arrow’s head whips up, her eyes wide, her jaw parted as she lets out a huff.

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