After accepting the baggie, he kissed her, then jogged around the front of his car and left.
“You and me, Whiskey,” she said and started toward her door.
Whiskey wouldn’t budge. She sat in her driveway whining as she watched Gabriel drive away. “He’ll be back. Come on.”
Whiskey looked at her house, then her nose went into the air.
“Raccoons,” she said. “They’re as cute as can be. Did you know that raccoons have evolved to the point where humans find them cute? The raccoons in my garden aren’t the same as in my grandparents' day. And I know they’re winning the evolutionary game, because I actually left some cat kibble and water near my trash cans as a kind of exchange.” Sommer tugged Whiskey's leash.
Whiskey whimpered and backed up.
“Oh, lord, I wish it didn’t come to this for both of our sakes.” Sommer put the baggie of kibble between her teeth, then bent and lifted Whiskey around the waist. And, just like for Gabriel, Whiskey turned into a taxidermy project as Sommer carried her all the way up the sidewalk. All the way up the stairs. All the way through Sommer’s fumbled attempt to get the key into the lock.
Once they were inside, Sommer took off the leash and set it on the table with her keys. Taking the bag from her mouth, she shook it in front of Whiskey. “Shall we eat?” Sommer turned toward her kitchen. “I’m getting hungry, aren't you?”
“I am,” said a man with a balding head and his black shirt stretched over a sizable stomach, sitting at her kitchen table. “We were wondering when you were getting home.”
Sommer blinked at him.
Her focus slid to the man in a blue shirt, standing at her counter near her splintered kitchen door. She turned to the window Gabriel had said she’d left unlocked. They hadn’t needed to damage her door, she thought nonsensically.
And lastly, because she really didn’t want to see, she turned to the man sitting on a stool near her island, gun in hand, pointing right at her.
“Where’s Atworth?”
“Atworth,” she repeated the word; the sounds had no meaning. She shook her head.
“Hubby? Boyfriend?”
She shook her head.
“Gabriel Atworth,” the black-shirted man said, drumming his fingers on the table. “Whiskey’s dad.” He looked down at Whiskey with her long, sad face standing between her and the black-shirted man.
“He doesn’t live here,” Sommer managed.
“But Whiskey does?”
“I’m dog-sitting,” she whispered. Her mind was back on the mountain where Gabriel had described what he did for a living. It was in the context of his coming to talk to her about his face being visible on the video. He’d said it put people in danger.
Apparently, the person it put in danger was her.
Black Shirt looked at the man with the gun.
“I’ve been through whole place, and there are only girly things.” The gunman reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of Sommer’s fancy date-night panties. He looked right at her as he brought them to his nose and inhaled loudly.
Sommer thought she was going to be sick.
“So she takes us to Gabriel’s house,” Blue Shirt said.
Sommer held her right hand in the air. “I swear on all that is holy, I have no idea where Gabriel lives. I only met him yesterday.” Sommer was numb. She should be terrified, but she couldn’t bring up those feelings.
It was like watching a show on her TV.
It was like she could turn this off and walk away.
She’d probably used up every bit of scared and horrified that she had in her when she was on the mountain and then sitting in the car next to the dead woman.
She was wrung dry.
