Below us, Ned moaned dully.
“My sons think their dad is some deadbeat. Somestoner.”
I looked up. Hisinjury. His addiction. That’s what Quin had pulled out of him that day at the bar. But addiction didn’t have to be a dead end. I had to believe it. I had seen it. “If you’re struggling, you can get—”
“I’m not an addict!” Mike roared, his face going red.
Behind the door, Bear barked once, but Mike didn’t seem to hear. I pressed myself against the door as he leaned in and spoke in a low, patient voice. “Every last person you know is a single catastrophe away from the street. From doing anything to survive. Anything. Your boyfriend. Yourbestfriend,” he spat. “Even you.”
“Joey wasn’t like that,” I said. “Alex…” My throat closed up, but I fought through it. “And Oona, all my friends you threatened. They’re good people.”
“I’ma good person,” he said. “I was. Iam. Nobody was supposed to get hurt.”
He blinked over his shoulder for a second, a shadow passing over his face. I realized I hadn’t heard a whimper out of Ned in a few minutes.
I couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t be distracted thinking that Alex might be lying somewhere, too. I’d already had to begin folding Joey’s death into myself, make it part of my reality—but I couldn’t do the same for Alex.
“If you got what you came for,” I said through tears, “justleave.”
“You know I didn’t,” Mike said, with something like pity. “The treasure isn’t real—you warned me and I didn’t listen.”
“The treasure is real,” I sobbed.
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Are you saying—”
“But you’ll never find it, because you’ll never value it,” I said. “The pub is the treasure. The community Alex built, all the people—”
“You’re a speech giver on top of everything else?” he said. “All right, I’ll meet you more than halfway. McPhee’s Tavern is a gall’durn gold mine—is that what you need to hear?” He looked at me with real sadness, the silence around us stretching. “Okay,” he said. “Open the door.”
I was shaking, the door handle rattling gently in my hand, and I heard it again, the shuffle and clatter of the dogs, expectant, on the other side. An open door meant a walk.
“Open the door, Dahlia,” Mike said. Almost kindly.
An open door meant a friend. An open door meant—
An open door meant a human who could reach the kitchen counters. An open door meant atreat.
I didn’t have time to wonder if it would work. I swung the door open, diving wide of it.
“Wufers,” I called. I curled my hand into a fist and flung my opening hand into Mike Jordan’s startled face.
The guy reared back as though I had thrown a grenade. As the dogs thundered out at him, he reached for the gun, and he nearly had it out when they struck, low and hard, knees and crotch, just as Oona had trained them.
He buckled but stayed on his feet, hunched, his hand reaching again for his waist. But before he could straighten up, I lifted my right boot into the underside of his chin.
The gun flew out of his hand and clattered down the stairs as he was thrown backward—nearly catching himself on the railing. At his feet, the dogs were spinning fur, snapping teeth. Lemon’s weight bounced off his forward leg and he twisted, losing his footing and his grip. My hand shot out to catch him, instinct, as he tumbled backward over the railing.
The dogs tilted their heads at the howl—
Cut short.
I ordered the dogs both back into the apartment, threw out two Wufers apiece from the jar, and collapsed on the floor.
What had just happened?
What had I just done?
The apartment door stood open. I stretched out and kicked it shut, then reached up to flip the dead bolt. I put my back to the door and balled up against it, shuddering, while the dogs finished their treats.
