“Her father?”
“Yes.” I heft the case off the bed. “She was under pressure, probably panicking. Her first instinct would be to call a number so familiar she doesn’t have to think about it.”
“What about Hutchinson? Do you think he called the police?”
“If he contacted them, they would’ve been here already.”
Nolene frowns. “I can’t imagine Hutchinson doing nothing after a call from his kidnapped daughter.”
“Neither can I.”
Still troubled, I load our stuff into the trunk of Nolene’s RAV in the garage. There’s no time to do a clean-up of our fingerprints everywhere. And what about my client? This is his house. I’ll have to find a way to warn him. If he keeps his cool, he can simply state he loaned his home to his favorite vet for the holidays and claim ignorance of any connection to an animal rights activist cell.
I’ve organized a contractor to come in tomorrow to repair the mirror and broken window. I hope I’m not overlooking anything.
“Ready to leave?” I ask Nolene.
She nods.
We’re heading to Ross and Merele’s place in the country, a half-hour drive away.
Every time I think about Ross and Merele, a confused and nameless yearning steals over me. Ross and I met when we were both first-year students at veterinary school, our friendship growing and deepening during those soul-crunching years of study. After college, we built up experience working at various practices and kept our friendship from becoming stale by weekly double dates.
Then Merele came into our lives.
Listening to her speak at an animal rights fundraiser, we were both struck by her beauty, intelligence, and passion for animals. Ross and I chatted with her afterward and the three of us struck up an intimate friendship filled with intense conversations over late-night lattes, Sunday picnic concerts, and juvenile practical jokes played at any time of the day or night. Merele once removed all the labels from the cans in my pantry, and for the next couple of weeks I didn’t know if I’d be supplementing that night’s meal with baked beans or canned peaches.
I retaliated by replacing Merele’s shampoo with the vegan equivalent of cod liver oil. We couldn’t go near her for days. Getting together for weekend demos and mass sit-ins further cemented the growing solidarity between us.
I knew Ross was falling hard for Merele. The trouble was, so was I. And Merele seemed torn between the two of us.
One night, after one too many glasses of Merlot, Merele and I shared an unexpected, heated kiss that shook us both. I knew if I exerted myself I could steal her heart completely, but I also sensed that, despite her attraction to me, she felt more at ease with Ross’s laid-back steadiness.
Although it nearly broke me, I valued friendship over infatuation and backed away, allowing my clean-cut, blond, blue-eyed friend to take the lead. Six months later, I was the best—and possibly the unhappiest—man at their wedding.
The one highlight was when the celebrant announced the usual, “If any of you can show just cause...” and the blonde, blue-eyed girl I bribed with an Island Barbie ran up the aisle to Ross, yelling, “Daddy! Daddy!”
To recover from losing Merele, I hooked up with Nolene, taking our working friendship to the next level. She possessed everything I should have wanted—sensual looks and a fierce, activist spirit. But she wasn’t Merele.
Three years ago, Ross and I started our own veterinary practice to fund our AFD activities. Merele reluctantly remained at her lucrative job as a business analyst, joining us whenever an evening raid was scheduled.
Then the unthinkable happened. Ross announced he and Merele were pulling out of the field to start an animal sanctuary. “I can’t risk Mel landing up in prison,” Ross said, insisting the sanctuary would take in any animals AFD liberated.
That took place over a year and a half ago. I adjusted, but I still miss my partner. And Merele.
“Do Ross and Mel know we’re coming?” Nolene asks now, bringing me out of my memories.
“No.”
“Ross isn’t going to be happy.”
“Nope.”
Fiddling with the zipper on her toiletry bag, Nolene says abruptly, “My fingerprints are on file.”
My eyes hold hers. We both know what that means. Twelve years ago, Nolene was caught outside an upmarket fur store with a firebomb in her car and charged with conspiracy to commit arson. The prosecutor offered her a reduction in her sentence if she divulged the names of the other activists involved. Nolene rejected the deal and served three years of her five-year sentence.
“I can’t go back to prison,” she whispers.
