Page 55 of A Furever Home
“Maybe find one but don’t open it yet. The owner said she didn’t have allergies, so she should be fine.” I didn’t like to disrupt feeding routines, but the dog might be truly hungry by now. “And don’t feed her without me there. You getting bitten is not going to earn me brownie points with the courts, either.” The little dog was fine with other dogs, but her nippiness toward humans worried me.
Wynn glanced up from the laptop he was busy working on, where tabs were open to a mountain of paperwork. “You’d be correct with that assertion.” He was about to resume typing when he cocked his head. “Do you think the dog’s been abandoned?”
I shook my head. “No. I mean, I doubt it? Cases like that are damn rare.” I belonged to an online group of other daycare owners. Only two had mentioned this ever happening. Both times, the dogs had been older and in need of advanced medical care. Although, my bad, both daycare operators warned new people starting in the business to always check the ID of the owner at first drop off and confirm all their pertinent details. Which, in my dealing with Cheyenne’s crisis this morning, I hadn’t remembered to do. “I’ll call.”
After snagging the intake form for Sadie, I stepped into the kitchen and yanked my phone from my back pocket. In retrospect, the woman hadn’t put much on the form that was helpful—no second contacts at all, no email. Again, she’d been in a rush and I’d been distracted. Have to do better in the future. She was likely delayed or in a car accident or something… I entered the number into my phone and dialed.
“We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is not in service. Please hang up and try again.”
I stared at the phone.
The message began to repeat, so I disconnected the line and checked the phone number.
Dialed it again, putting in each digit carefully.
Got the same automated message.
Four times.
Although much of the writing on the form was chicken scratch—legible but barely—the phone number was clear enough. No chance of an incorrect digit.
Fuck. “Uh, I just need to check something on my computer.” Like googling the woman and finding her ASAP.
Cheyenne appeared. “Sadie needs food. So do we. Do you want me to whip up some chicken salad sandwiches?”
“God, that would be amazing.” Grilled cheese at lunch was a long-distant memory. “And see if Wynn wants some?” The urge to say Mr. Cavannah overwhelmed me, but I managed to follow the lawyer’s directive.
“You’re worried. Did the owner not answer?”
“I’m sure she just reversed some digits. And she’s been detained. By a car accident or a health crisis, or even just job overtime.”
Cheyenne arched an eyebrow.
Fuck. “I need to run a quick search.”
“Okay.” She headed toward the fridge and retrieved the rotisserie chicken we’d bought with the grocery order.
I headed to my alcove. Instead of sitting, though, I snagged the fully charged laptop and brought it back to my large dining room table. I’d thought the tabletop too big when I bought it—because when was I going to entertain ten people? Now, as Wynn spread everything out and Cheyenne was bringing food plus my stuff? Not so enormous.
After fifteen minutes, I sighed. “I think the name she gave was fake. Or she’s got a zero digital footprint. I suppose that’s possible. I mean, Cheyenne doesn’t have one…”
Wynn met my gaze. “I don’t imagine the police would bother to investigate, but that intake form might have actual fingerprints.”
“Yeah.” I snorted at the idea of the cops taking the time to fingerprint my doggie paperwork. “Not the crime of the century, even if Sadie was stolen. I’m going to check the missing dog posts.”
“You think she was stolen?” Cheyenne entered carrying one plate piled high with sandwiches, another with cut vegetables and three little containers of salad dressing. She put them on the table. “Hold that thought.” She exited the room and was back fifteen seconds later with three plates. “Grab a container of dressing, your veggies, and then sandwiches.” She nodded to me. “Wynn said he’s fine with this.”
“Grateful, in fact.” Wynn took some veggies.
“I doubt she was stolen,” I said. “She’s not some fancy purebred. Unless it was a family revenge thing, like getting back at an ex. I still think the owner’s just late, but it’s weird that the phone number’s not in service, the address seems to link to a different name, and there’s nothing about her online.”
Wynn nodded. “Starts to feel more than coincidence. You didn’t see ID?”
“No.” I groaned. “I should’ve. I know that. But I was busy, and people love their pets, you know? A bounced payment sometimes happens, but I don’t usually have to worry they’re not the real owner or won’t come back.”
“What do we do now?” Cheyenne scurried to the kitchen and came back with a glass of chocolate milk for herself. A treat she never got at home, so I’d happily bought her some. I could worry about how much junk food she was consuming later.
“You’re right of course.” I took a sip of my water and kind of wished it was whisky—even though I rarely drank. And certainly wouldn’t as long as Cheyenne’s situation was up in the air. “Well, for now, we’ll just wait. After we’ve eaten, we’ll need to feed Sadie. And the owner might still show up, the number might be a mistake.” I can hope.
