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Another tiny tail thump.

“You know you're coming home with me now, right?” I scratch behind his floppy ear.

His eyes close.

“Yeah.” I smile. “You're mine.”

Three hours later, I'm sitting on my living room floor with a stray dog asleep against my thigh.

My disguise is gone. Thank God.

The vet couldn't find a microchip.

He's underweight and dehydrated. The cut on his paw made him limp, but thankfully nothing is broken.

They cleaned and wrapped it, gave me medication, instructions, food recommendations, and information for reporting a found dog.

I've already checked every local lost-pet page I can find.

Nothing.

For now, he's here with me.

He's eaten. He's had water.

We've survived a bath. Barely.

He's wrapped in one of Mr. Pickles’s blankets. Ivy and the cat will have to forgive me.

My phone buzzes.

Gracie: Did you find Roman's house?

I look down at the dog sleeping against my thigh. His clean fur is lighter than I thought. Brown and tan, with darker fur along his back. One ear still stands up. The other apparently has no ambition.

I smile, then respond.

Me: No. I lost him because I found a dog.

Three dots appear.

Gracie: You went stalking a hitman in my car and came home with a DOG?

Me: Yes.

Gracie: How does this happen to you?

I look at the little guy. His wrapped paw twitches in his sleep.

Me: Technically, he provided me with cover.

Her response comes immediately.

Gracie: A COVER FOR WHAT?

I grin.

Me: Stalking.