Page 72 of The Woman at the Funeral

“Yeah, maybe not all of them. But I’m pretty sure Nico is one of the good ones. I mean… he didn’t have to defend me or bring me here.”

God, I was talking to a dog.

“Do you want to come up?” I asked, patting the foot of the bed.

Goya wasted no time hopping up, turning in three circles, then curling up.

He was asleep in seconds.

His first sleep in a comfy bed out of the shelter.

I wasn’t mentally prepared for a dog. There was so much to think about. Vets, walking schedules, who could take care of him when I was traveling, how many times a week (or day) I might need to vacuum and mop to keep my place clean.

But one look at him and I knew there was no way I could send him back, be another human who got his hopes up and failed him.

Apparently, I had a dog now.

Suddenly, I was wondering if there were any galleries in the city that would let me bring Goya in for a visit. I could see using him for content for my blog.

I had the sudden urge to check it, but knowing I couldn’t, I found my text thread from Nico instead, looking through all of the images he’d snapped.

Of me.

Because while the art was certainly there, but the focus was clearly on me.

I’d never really seen myself like that before.

I wasn’t sure anyone had ever seen me that way before.

Just Nico.

There was a swelling sensation in my chest at that thought, at the nettling little realization that maybe, just maybe, Nico saw past the guards; he saw what was beneath.

Uncomfortable with that, I put my phone inside the nightstand and reached for the burner instead, figuring out how to set it up, then placing it on the nightstand in case I needed it.

I spent the next half hour jumping at shadows and slams all around, while Goya snored noisily, his little legs twitching in his sleep.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard a rustling sound coming from the apartment door.

Goya went from dead asleep to on the ground, hackles raised and snarling, in seconds.

“I think it might be Nico,” I told him, grabbing the gun as I crept to the bedroom door, unlocking it, then peeking out into the hall.

“Just me,” Nico said, seeing me as he came through the door.

“It’s okay, buddy,” I told Goya, patting his head until his hair flattened and his posture loosened.

“No, sit,” Nico said, brushing me away when I tried to grab bags to help him put things away.

“I can help.”

“Sure you can. But I got this.”

I hated that my knee-jerk instinct was to compare him to Matthew. But I couldn’t seem to help it.

It didn’t matter how many bags I came in weighed down by—if Matthew had even helped me buy those things—he’d never once helped me put anything away, let alone told me to relax while he did it himself.

I sat on the couch, watching as Nico shrugged out of his jacket, setting it over the back of a chair, then going through the grocery bags, putting everything away in such a natural way that it was clear he did it all the time.

---