Mochi tilted his head, blinking. “Stupid dogs,” he repeated in his clipped, robotic tone. “Woman. In the basement. Die stupid dogs. Die.”
My brows pulled together. “What?”
“Woman. In the basement. Die stupid dogs. Die.”
His voice was tense, clipped. Nothing like his usual self. It was more agitated. Nervous.
I turned just as Daniel walked back in, his arms full of clothes. He froze midstep. The color drained from his face as his eyes locked on mine.
“I’m so sorry,” I said quickly, flustered. “He must be stressed. He’s never—”
But Daniel didn’t seem to hear me.
“Emily, your shirt.”
I looked down, and everything stopped.
Blood. Bright red blood had soaked into my clothes like paint. For a second, I thought I was the one bleeding. Maybe I just hadn’t felt it yet.
Then it hit me.
“It’s not mine.” I rushed toward Hudson. “It’s Rascal’s.”
Tara quickly peeled back the towel. Rascal had gone quiet. Too quiet. His tiny body was limp now, barely moving. The towel had been thick enough to hide it, but once she unwrapped him, there was so much blood.
Hudson lurched forward, his face panicked. He searched Rascal’s belly, hands moving fast until he found it: a deep gash, raw and bleeding.
Daniel didn’t wait. “The vet is fifteen miles from here. I’ll get the car!”
He was gone before the last words had left his mouth.
Hudson stood and hurried toward the front of the house, Rascal clutched tightly to his chest.
We followed fast.
Daniel pulled up to the front steps in a blur of silver. The car jerked to a halt.
Hudson yanked the door open and slid in with Rascal still pressed against him. “You stay here with Emily,” he told Tara.
She nodded quickly. “Go.”
Tires kicked up dust as the car sped down the long road toward the mainland.
Tara and I stood frozen at the top of the steps, watching the car shrink until it was gone.
Chapter 11
Tara placed a cup of tea in front of me. I sat on a stool at the large kitchen island, my hair still damp from the shower. Steam curled up from the cup, carrying the soft, earthy scent of chamomile. A plate of homemade cookies sat in front of me, and I grabbed one.
“That was quite the day,” Tara said, leaning against the island, sipping from her own cup. The dogs hovered between us, weaving back and forth to collect pets and affection from whoever’s hand was free. Tara had the grounded calm of an older woman—someone who’d weathered enough of life’s storms to stop flinching every time the wind blew.
“I’m so glad Rascal is okay,” I said, taking a bite. I’d just gotten off the phone with Daniel. “The vet said they made it just in time.”
Tara nodded and took another sip. She hadn’t changed clothes. Unlike me, she barely had any blood on her—just a few streaks where Rascal’s towel must have brushed her pants.
“He loves those damn dogs so much,” she said. “They’ve got a good life here. Full run of the garden during the day, a warm spot by the fire in his cottage at night. But I do wonder if he’s getting too old for this. Eleven dogs is a lot.”
“He rescued all of them?” I asked, my eyes settling on the older German shepherd missing an eye. The sweet boy had earned a little extra attention from me since he’d been glued to my side for the past hour.
