Page 30 of Sirens
“My Peekapoo.”
“Please tell me that’s not a Pokémon or something.”
“My dog is old as balls and has special needs,” Maggie explained, the worry lines around her eyes deepening. “Narcolepsy, partial blindness, deafness… Without her medication, she could have seizures.”
“McGarvey will feed her, wontcha?” Myrtle volunteered for him. “Since it’s your fault the poor thing will be alone all night.”
“Myfault? How is itmy faultwhen you’re the one who broke the law?” he asked.
“Because you should know the difference between what is legal and what is right, young man, or have I mistaken you?” For the first time in a while, maybe ever, the woman looked dead serious.
Goddammit.
Driving up to the jail booking annex, he handed his suspects off to Deputy Edna Dancewater, a Salish grandma with thirty years on the force and the best aim in three counties.
“Okay.” Trent sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. The thought of the helpless dog waiting anxiously for its owner tugged at something inside him. “Hand over the key. I’ll make sure your pooch gets what she needs.”
Trent foundhimself pausing at the doorway to Maggie’s apartment to once again read the litany of care instructions Maggie had jotted down in the jail booking area while rapid-firing the info at him like her brain was on fully automatic. For someone who struggled with drink recipes, she sure could remember a complex dog food regimen.
“Fluff her food,” he grumbled, wondering how his night had gone from patrolling the sleepy streets of Townsend Harbor to drug dealing to a disabled designer dog.
Unlocking the door, he stepped inside.
“Jesus Hoarding Christ,” he muttered, surveying the piles of clothes strewn across the floor, dishes piled high in the sink, and shoes. So. Many. Shoes. In a pile by the door. Kicked off atthe foot of the couch. Discarded by the fireplace. The bathroom counter was an explosion of makeup and hair accessories, with blush dusting the surface like a light snow dusting over fallen comrades.
This place was his actual nightmare.
The coffee pot sat half-full, a bitter aroma clinging to the air, a testament to a hasty exit or an indulgent morning.
The place looked like the aftermath of a Fashion Week tornado, yet amongst this whirlwind, designer brands gleamed and winked at him with silent luxury, seemingly abandoned by their owner who didn’t care enough to cherish them properly.
The shoes were Gucci. Armani. Manolo Blahnik, the bags Kate Spade, Prada, Valentino.
And she just tossed them around like they’d come off a clearance rack at Payless.
“Roxie?” he called, hoping the dog didn’t do something unspeakable to all this luxury and good taste. He suddenly felt like an idiot, remembering the dog was deaf. And mostly blind. And easily spooked.
The combination was a recipe for disaster.
Trent found a bundle of off-white fluff curled on a tiny velvet bed next to the fireplace heater. He approached with the care he’d have shown the raptors inJurassic Park, reaching two fingers out to nudge the warm little body out of torpor.
The tiny thing came up teeth first, and luckily missed his hand with her first chomp and decided to scream about it.
Not bark. Not whimper.
Scream.
The creature emitted a sound so unholy Trent shrank away and crossed himself like the lapsed Episcopalian his granddad had been, then made another older sign against demons taught to him by his Dominican Grandma.
A tiny furball of a dog came yapping fiercely at Trent’s feet, but the old spell must have worked, because the little shit promptly keeled over on the carpet mid-yap.
Wait. That was bad.
“Fuck!” Trent rushed to scoop up the collapsed canine and exhaled in relief as the little body came to before long and began to squirm. Though, instead of needing an exorcist, the pup startled him by sniffing the hands that held her and greeting him with two swipes of her little warm tongue.
“Friends already? That was fast.” He tried to sound gruff but couldn’t suppress a hint of affection. Carefully setting down the five pounds of deaf dervish, he fetched her meds and pill pockets from the kitchen, his eyes trailing over the ridiculous gourmet dog food that needed “fluffing.”
“All right, Roxie girl, let’s see whathaute cuisineyou’ve got here.” Pulling the bowl from the fridge, Trent eyed the contents with skepticism before attacking it with a fork, fluffing as instructed. “Your mom’s a piece of work, you know that?”
