The Liar

“Oh, no you don’t.” She picked up the pup, gave it a long look. “Just where did you come from?”

“Right down the road,” Griff said, opening sleepy eyes.

“Whose dog is it?”

“I guess it’s my dog. It just sort of happened. Snickers.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“His name. Snickers. Chocolate Lab–golden retriever mix.”

“He couldn’t be cuter.” Amused, charmed, she cuddled the pup in while he lapped lovingly at her chin. “Did you look at the size of his feet?”

“No. Not especially.”

“You’re going to have one big dog here.” She smiled as Snickers switched to her cheek, wiggled happily in her arms. “Which one wore you out? Callie or the dog?”

“I think we wore each other out. Baby world okay?”

“It’s perfect. Beau Sawyer, if you didn’t get my last text. Healthy, beautiful, and the family’s all beaming. I can’t thank you enough, Griff, for keeping Callie so I could be there. It meant the world to me.”

“We had fun. What time is it?”

“It’s about eight-thirty.”

“Okay, we probably crashed about twenty minutes ago.”

“Did you get something to eat? I should’ve—”

“There was chicken left from the picnic,” he interrupted. “And I did some mac and cheese because you can’t go wrong. Had some frozen peas I mostly use as an ice bag, but they worked.”

He stroked Callie’s back as he spoke, as he shifted. She rolled over like a bundle of rags.

“She’s out.”

“It’s been a happy day for her. Me, too.” She set the dog down, and he bounced to Griff, went for the laces. Griff scooped the pup up in one arm, looked around and found the chew rope he’d made out of old cord. “Try this,” he suggested, and set the dog down with it.

“Did she talk you into that dog?”

“She didn’t have to say a word.” He glanced back where Callie slept, butt hiked in the air, one arm wrapped around Fifi. “It’s all in the eyes. I planned to get one, more like in the fall. Get a little more done around here first. So I just shifted up the timeline. Plus, he was on sale. Do you want some food? There’s still some mac and cheese. The chicken’s just a fond memory.”

“No, thanks. We ate here and there at the hospital. I need to get her home and in bed.”

“Maybe you could stay.”

Tempting, so tempting when his arms slid around her.

“I’d like that, and suspect Callie would, too. But not yet, Griff. Not quite yet.”

She could prolong the moment, her mouth on his. Then her head on his shoulder. “It’s been a good day.”

“Red letter.”

He picked Callie up. She lay boneless over his shoulder while Shelby gathered the hamper, the bag. The dog raced out the door ahead of them, ran circles around the yard while Griff fixed Callie in her seat.

He watched them drive off with the western sky taking on the color of her hair. Then there was quiet.

He liked the quiet, he reminded himself, or he’d never have bought a place so far out of town. But it felt seriously quiet after hours of a little girl’s chatter.

He looked down to where Snickers was busy attacking his laces.

“Cut that out.” He had only to shake his foot. “Let’s make the rounds.”

They made the rounds again twice more before midnight. He’d worked too hard on the floors he’d refinished to have them ruined by a puppy.

Considering sleeping arrangements, he fashioned a temporary dog bed out of a box, some old towels, and tied another towel into a puppy-like shape. Snickers wasn’t immediately sold, but the excitement of the day did its work. With the pup as conked as Callie had been, Griff considered it a job well done, and dropped into bed himself.

He didn’t know what woke him. The clock read two-twelve, and when he checked by the flashlight app of his phone, Snickers remained curled in a ball in his box.

Though he opted to let sleeping dogs lie, something felt off. Off enough for him to walk quietly out of the bedroom. Listen.

Old houses groaned and creaked, he thought—he knew it well. And still he eased open a door, picked up a pipe wrench. Flipping on lights as he went, he started downstairs.

And there, just that . . . a faint click. A door closing.

He moved quickly now, straight toward the back and the glass doors.

He hit the lights, hit the outside floods.

He’d be spotlighted, but if anyone was out there, so would they.

He saw nothing, no movement.

Had he locked the back doors? He didn’t think so, as he rarely thought to. And with taking the pup in and out, he likely hadn’t.

He stepped out on the back porch, filtering out the night sounds, the breeze, the mournful call of an owl, the faint echo of a dog barking somewhere across the ridge.

He heard an engine turn over, the crunch of tires on gravel.

He stood for a while, looking out into the dark.

Someone had been in his house, he was damn sure of it.

He went in, locked the door—though it occurred to him since it was all glass, it wouldn’t take much if someone wanted in.

He scanned the area, looking for anything out of place.

His gaze passed over the laptop he’d left on the kitchen island, tracked back.

He’d left the top up—almost always did. But it was down now.

And when he walked over, put a hand on it, it felt slightly warm.