Page 72 of Dead Pretty

“Pork Chop’s owner passed away, and Gary was a stray. Found wandering around the streets. Shelly said he was in bad shape when they brought him in.”

My poor Gary.

I have a heartbreaking vision of a skinny, shabby-looking Gary, confused, lost, and wondering why his owners left him alone. Why they didn’t want him anymore.

“Hey. He’s okay now.” Jack reaches over, covering my hand with his.

I start at the contact.

“Shelly and Ron are good people. They will find him a forever home soon enough,” he adds in a soothing voice.

“I know.” I blink clear whatever emotion he saw in my eyes that prompted him to reassure me like that.

I’m really wishing my hair were down now, so I could hide my face with the thick curtain of it.

Clearing my throat, I slide my hand out from under his in the pretense of picking up my beer bottle.

I put it to my lips, taking a long drink. I can’t believe how upset I got then at the thought of Gary being alone.

Maybe because you’re alone, and you know how it feels.

Yeah, but my being alone is my choice.

But is it really? Or is it a necessity that arose from a situation you hadn’t caused?

Oh, fuck off, subconscious.

I put my beer down. Keeping ahold of it, I pick at the edge of the label with my thumbnail.

“Hey, just a thought …” I start, needing to take the conversation into humor. “Maybe this is why Eleven keeps escaping from your apartment … because you keep coming home, smelling of dogs. She probably thinks you’re cheating on her with those damn dogs, so she packs up her shit and leaves you.” I smirk.

He barks out a laugh. “Funny too.” He taps a finger to the table. “Along with a good heart.” He catches my eyes. “You can add those to your list of good qualities.”

A hollowness seeps into my chest.

Because he’s wrong. So very wrong. I am none of those things. Well, maybe I am funny. But I definitely don’t have a good heart. Maybe I used to have one once upon a time ago.

But now … no.

To have a good heart, you would need to use it, and I put that muscle to rest a long time ago.

I look away, down to the label I’m picking at.

“I’ve embarrassed you.” His deep voice touches my skin.

“You haven’t.”

“If you want your lie to be convincing, maybe wear makeup next time. It’d cover your red cheeks.”

My face is warm but not from embarrassment. More from … disappointment. Disheartenment that he sees something in me that’s not there anymore. Or maybe he just sees what he wants. Most people do.

Folks can create an illusion of the person they want you to be, and when you fail to live up to it, the truth is somehow your fault.

Or it’s the reverse, and we create the illusion. Make people think we’re something we’re not in order for them to try to catch and keep us.

The very trait of a serial killer. Only they don’t try to keep. They take. And take. And take some more.

And me … well, I am none of those things. A creation of circumstances. An anomaly.