His phone buzzed.
Ryan grabbed for it so fast he nearly dropped it. But the message wasn't from Grayson. Unknown number. Probably spam. He almost deleted it without reading.
Then he saw what it said.
We want our property back. You have 48 hours to return what was taken or you'll pay. We know where you work.
Ryan’s stomach dropped. He read the message again, the words not quite making sense at first. Property. What was taken. Then it clicked.
The dogs.
Someone wanted the fighting dogs back.
His hands went cold. The phone felt slippery in his grip. He read the message a third time, looking for some indication that this was a joke or a wrong number. But the mention of his workplace was too specific. Someone knew he worked at the clinic. Someone knew the dogs were there.
Ryan stood up from the couch, his legs unsteady. He walked to the window and looked out at the parking lot below. Everything looked normal. The same cars that were always there. No one lurked in the shadows, but that didn’t mean anything. Someone had his number. Someone knew where he worked.
You'll pay.
Ryan’s mind raced through possibilities. This had to be related to the fighting ring Grayson had raided. Someone angry about losing their investment. Someone willing to threaten a veterinary clinic to get the dogs back.
He needed to call someone. The police. Dr. Sullivan. Someone.
But his fingers were already opening his messages, scrolling to Grayson’s name. Ryan screenshot the threatening text, his hands shaking enough that it took two tries to capture it properly. He sent it to Grayson with a message: Got this. Don't know what to do.
The reply came within seconds. His phone rang, Grayson’s name on the screen.
Ryan answered. “Hey.”
“Are you okay?” Grayson’s voice sounded different. Harder. “Where are you right now?”
“Home. I’m fine, just freaked out.” Ryan moved away from the window, suddenly paranoid about being visible. “Do you think this is real? Someone actually wants the dogs back?”
“Yes. Where do you live?”
Ryan rattled off his address without thinking. His brain felt sluggish, struggling to process what was happening. “Should I call the police?”
“I’m on my way. Don't open the door for anyone except me. Do you understand?”
The command in Grayson’s voice cut through the fog in Ryan’s head. “Yeah. Okay.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Lock your door.”
The line went dead.
Ryan stood in the middle of his living room, phone still pressed to his ear. Ten minutes. Grayson would be here in ten minutes. That thought should have been comforting, but instead, it made everything feel more real. More dangerous. If Grayson was dropping everything to come over, that meant this was serious.
He went to the door and checked the lock. Already engaged. He flipped the deadbolt, too, then checked the window latches. All secure. The apartment suddenly felt too exposed. Too many windows. Too many ways for someone to see inside.
Ryan pulled the curtains closed and turned on a lamp. The warm light did nothing to settle the anxiety crawling through his system. He looked at his phone again. The screenshot of the threatening message stared back at him.
We know where you work.
They knew where he worked. Which meant they could find him. Could show up at the clinic. Could hurt the dogs or Dr. Sullivan or Janet or anyone who got in their way.
Ryan started pacing. His apartment wasn't large enough for proper pacing, so he ended up walking the same six steps back and forth between the couch and the kitchen. His mind spun through worst-case scenarios. Someone breaking into the clinic at night. Stealing the dogs back. Or worse, hurting them to send a message.
A knock at the door. “Ryan, it’s me.”
