Focus, damn it. You can fall apart later, she promised herself, sniffing back another wave of moisture that was gathering like an ocean swell after a big storm.
She supposed she’d have to call someone to go over to the house and pick her up, but who? Erin had long since lost contact with the people she’d once known in Granite Hills. Someone was bound to realize Butterscotch was alone at the house, right?
Perhaps. Then again, perhaps not.
Visions of a half-frozen dog waiting pitifully for her master to come home made her shudder, the very thought weighing like a two-ton bulldozer on her conscience. After all Caroline had done for her, she couldn’t possibly let her aunt’s favored companion die forgotten like day-old trash. But what was she supposed to do if she couldn’t get hold of anyone?
Her gaze returned to the assignment folder and she contemplated telling Harvey that she wasn’t going to do it. He’d no doubt spit bullets but there was nothing he could do if she chose to take time off under these circumstances. Of course, if she did that she could probably kiss off any chance of landing the senior photographic editor job. She drew a deep breath and leaned back to stare at the ceiling, her grief-numbed brain reminding her sharply to get her priorities straight. The promotion was the least of her worries.
Yet, she realized with a groan, time off with nothing but her grief to occupy her mind would probably drive her crazy. Photography had always been her form of therapy. Losing herself in the process of capturing a sliver in time enabled her to stay sane when the moment proved too much to handle. It was what had kept her on track those first few years after leaving Granite Hills; what had kept her from self-medicating with drugs or alcohol. Closing her eyes as another wave of anguish rolled over her, she knew with resigned certainty that she wasn’t going to pull out of the assignment, no matter the circumstance or her personal feelings on the subject matter. Once again, she would cling to her photography like a life raft in the hopes that she wouldn’t drown.
A fat tear slid down her cheek and she wiped it away, almost absently, her mind already attempting to work in some sort of productive direction. She glanced at the folder on her desk.
Hometown America—the fantasy of small-town life.
Granite Hills—the reality of what small-town life was all about.
Quaint pictures of cobbled streets and gabled churches didn’t always tell the story straight. Most of the time, the pretty picture was simply that—a nice illusion. Which was why she hated these types of spreads. She preferred urban settings—gritty and real.
But, as she soon realized, most people weren’t like her. They wanted the fairy tale, which was why American Photographic was going to give it to them in full Technicolor.
“Happy-sappy sells magazines,” Harvey had snapped when she’d tried to talk him out of a similar spread last year.
And that’s what mattered.
Ironically, Granite Hills was probably the place of Harvey’s photographic dreams. On the surface it was chock full of Mayberry goodness; almost enough to give a person a cavity if they stuck around too long. It was the kind of place that Erin distrusted. She’d always felt apart from the shiny, happy people around her; always felt afraid that someone might judge her by the actions of her father. It hadn’t been easy being the only child of the town drunk. It probably hadn’t been any easier to be his sister but Caroline was one of a kind; she never gave up hope that things might change for the better. Unlike Erin, who’d given up on that pipe dream the day she left Granite Hills.
“Erin McNulty, line two.”
Erin stared at the sudden appearance of the blinking red light on her phone and wondered what more bad news could be waiting for her on the other end. She was half-tempted to let it blink for all eternity. Not possible, a derisive voice answered back. Besides, whoever it was would probably just call back anyway. She scrubbed the last of her tears from her face, and made an attempt to appear as if her world hadn’t just crumbled around her feet, before picking up the phone.
The officer with the New York accent spoke and the corners of her mouth turned down as fresh tears threatened to ruin her mask of composure. What now?
“I thought you should know the results of the BAC tests,” he said, pausing ever so slightly. “Aside from a little Robitussin for a cough, he was totally sober. I just thought you should know that before you made your decision.”
Sober? Impossible. “How accurate are those tests?” she asked.
“One hundred percent.”
Erin recalled Caroline trying to tell her that he’d stopped drinking a while ago but she hadn’t believed her. Actually, she hadn’t given Caroline much of a chance to convince her either. The thought of a sober Charlie was too fantastical to entertain and it tugged too hard on a childish dream that Erin had let die the night he beat her nearly senseless.
“You must have caught him on an off-night,” Erin retorted, a different sort of bitterness flooding her chest. “Ironic. The night he ends up killing someone with his driving is the night that he’s, according to your tests, quite sober.” A mirthless chuckle broke free. “Fate is a fickle bitch, isn’t she?”
Knowing there wasn’t an appropriate response to her acidic comment, she let him off the hook and changed subjects. She didn’t want to talk or think about Charlie. Ever again.
“My aunt had a dog,” she began, focusing on keeping her voice strong. “Her name’s Butterscotch. Can you send someone to get her? She’ll freeze out there by herself.”
“Sure thing,” he answered. He paused, then said, “We can hold her for three days, but if no one adopts her, I gotta be honest with you…she’ll be put down. Shelter policy. It’s a terrible thing but there’s just not enough space to hold all the animals we pick up.”
Of course. “Are you sure there’s no way the shelter could keep her until someone adopted her? I’d be willing to pay for her room and board,” she offered, yet, she knew that finding a family for an older dog was difficult at best. Most families wanted puppies or at least adolescent dogs who still had the energy to romp and play and fetch a stupid stick. She tried sweetening the deal. “I could even make a donation to the shelter, if need be.”
Money was one thing she had. If she had to she’d pay room and board for the dog until she died. If she had to empty her savings to build another wing for the animal shelter, she’d do that, too. But the man’s hesitation told her it wasn’t going to be that easy.
She could almost hear the man shake his head. “Sorry, ma’am, it doesn’t work that way. If the shelter ran like that it’d be a kennel,” he said, adding in a tone that was meant to soothe…or rile, she wasn’t quite sure. “But don’t worry, we’ll send someone out to get her. She’ll sleep warm tonight.”
But after that? Who knows. Criminy, what was she supposed to do? Fly to Michigan for a dog? She wasn’t a dog person. She wasn’t a pet person period. What was she supposed to do with the dog if she went and picked her up? Her apartment wasn’t conducive to other living things. The dog was probably better off taking her chances at the shelter. Someone was bound to adopt her. Judging by the pictures that Caroline always sent around Christmastime, she was fairly cute, as far as dogs went. A mutt of indeterminate parentage, but cute nonetheless.
And what if no one adopts her? a small voice shot back.
Then
