of the man emptying trash, ignored the girl chattering loudly into her cell phone, all without looking up from the page obviously torn out of a spiral notebook.
The note wasn’t signed. If it had been printed, she could have pretended it was a mistake. That he hadn’t written it. But there was no mistaking the handwriting; the slightly crooked hand, falling off the lines in her brother’s typical way, was definitely Chad’s.
Of course it was, just like all the others.
The writing blurred suddenly. She blinked, once, twice, then a third time. The last line swam, then cleared.
I’m sorry. I love you, sis.
She swore inwardly. “Then why did you leave, damn it? We could have fought this!”
Furious, mostly at herself for letting this latest in the long line of notes get to her, she wadded the ragged-edged piece of paper and the envelope into a tight ball. Dane would be unhappy yet again, she thought.
No, she thought as the memory stabbed at her. Dane Burdette would not be unhappy. Because he wasn’t around anymore. He’d given up on her at last.
His image shot through her mind, vivid and painful. Tall, lean, dark, silky hair that kicked forward over his brow, golden eyes alight as he looked at her, flashing his killer smile. The smile that had grown rarer and rarer as the time passed.
Smothering the usual ache at the thought of the man she’d once expected to spend her life with, she slammed the small metal door of the post office box closed, turned the key and yanked it out. She turned on her heel and walked toward the door. She tossed the wadded up note into the trash can just outside.
“Kayla!”
The last thing she wanted to do just now was talk to someone. But she thought she recognized the voice, so she stopped, turned. And was enveloped in a huge hug.
“I’m so glad to run into you this morning. I was going to call and tell you—Leah and I actually went out to dinner last night.”
Kayla managed a smile for the older man who several weeks ago had brought his reluctant wife to the counseling group she ran. “I’m glad to hear that, John. How did it go?”
“Not perfect, but better than I expected. And she’s encouraged enough to try something else now.”
“That’s good to hear. Very good.”
She meant it. She’d started the group for victims of violent crime as a means to help herself after the brutal murder of her parents, but in the process she had found a calling. She’d even gone back to school so she could be certified. And moments like this were why. Leah Crandall had been mentally immobilized after her son had been killed by an armed robber at a convenience store, and this was the first time she’d done anything socially normal in more than a year.
Kayla hoped they would make it, she thought as John promised he and his wife would continue with the group and would see her at the next meeting. So many marriages didn’t survive the death of a child; the murder of that child only made it worse.
The overcast morning matched her mood as she headed for the parking lot. She glanced down the row of parked vehicles toward her own, the little blue coupe Dane had always kept in perfect shape for her. She spotted a familiar motorcycle parked across from it and slowed her steps. Rod Warren truly was the last person she wanted to see now. Or ever. She’d had an aversion to him ever since she’d found him trying to burn holes in the wings of a living butterfly with a magnifying glass when they were kids. She’d tried to stop him, even though he was older and bigger, and had in return been pinned against a wall and groped in a way she was too young to completely understand.
But Dane had, and when she’d told him about it, Rod had later shown up with a split lip and a black eye, and he’d kept a wide berth from then on. Still, she’d never forgotten the repugnance she’d felt. But the rider of the motorcycle with the picture of a nude female arranged in a particularly obscene way on the tank was thankfully nowhere in sight, so she kept going.
She was almost to her car when she changed her mind.
She should keep the note. The envelope with the postmark at least; this might be the one time when it helped. She turned around and began to walk quickly back. She felt the breeze of her own movement edging her tears sideways across her cheeks.
A loud clank echoed against the block wall of the post office. And the trash can she’d tossed the crumpled note into rolled into her path. She stopped, staring. There was no wind to catch the now-empty metal container, nor anyone to knock it over. The janitor had worked his way around to the other side of the building, and nobody else was even close.
No human anyway.
But there was a dog.
Sitting beside the toppled trash can was a dog, a striking animal with a thick, longish coat colored black from the tip of his nose past his upright, alert ears all the way down past his shoulders, where the color of his fur changed to a rich, reddish brown.
He was looking at her rather intently.
And he had what she would swear was her note between his front paws. It had to be, she thought. The can had just been emptied before she’d tossed it. The wadded paper and envelope lay on the cement in front of him as if carefully placed. He must think it was some sort of ball to play with.
For a moment she pondered the dangers of approaching a strange dog. He wasn’t huge, but he was far from small. Big enough to be intimidating, to make her wary.
And then he grinned at her.
She knew it was silly, but she couldn’t think of any other way to describe it. His mouth opened, revealing some formidable teeth, but it was impossible to be frightened when his tongue lolled out on one side and the corners of that mouth seemed to curl upward.
Just when she had decided it might be safe to pet him, at the same time reaching for her note, he moved. He grabbed up the note and she froze. But he was holding it in a way that seemed oddly gentle. Like Dane’s sweet Labrador, Lilah, used to hold her pups long ago, so gently there was barely a dent in the fur. The memory made her ache even more for the man who had left her.
And then the dog got up and started to go toward the parking lot.
Angry at herself for tossing the note in the first place, Kayla didn’t know what to do. She wanted it back, desperately now, but she didn’t want to provoke a strange dog into biting her.
The dog stopped. He looked over his shoulder at her. And waited.
Images from countless movies and television shows flashed through her mind. Was she supposed to follow him? Did dogs really do that? He took a couple of steps, still looking at her, the note still held almost delicately in his mouth.
She followed tentatively. He started off again. Not running, not teasing her as some dogs did, playing a canine version of keep away; he just trotted off. He headed into the half-full parking lot, past the obscene motorcycle and toward the second row of vehicles. When he looked back yet again, as if to be certain she was following, she could have sworn his dark eyes were urging her, compelling her somehow.
Kayla shook her head sharply.
“It’s a dog,” she muttered under her
