Page 90 of Lorenzo

“Yes. This, she says, giving me some poop bags and explaining how to clean up after him.

“Have fun. We’ll see you later,” she tells us as we leave the apartment.

CHAPTER 38

EMILY

Imake my way down to the lobby with Biscotti in my arms. I delight in the puppy’s soft, warm fur.

It’s ridiculous that I take comfort from a tiny dog, when I’m supposed to be his human caretaker.

“Ernesto, hello,” I say, as I bend to attach Biscotti’s sparkly pink leash.

“I hope you don’t mind walking in the park with me and Biscotti.”

“A pleasure,” he says. “Always nice to get out for a fresh breath of air.”

“Agreed.”

I try to adopt a pleasant tone as I chat with Ernesto about New York as we wait for the light.

Ernesto sort of half-listens to me. He seems focused on scanning the people around us as we cross the street and head toward the park’s crowded entrance.

That’s a good sign, I tell myself. Ernesto’s alert and aware.

Inside the park, Biscotti trots ahead as far as his leash will allow. A few children stop and ask if they can pet him.

Once we pass the area known as the Sheep Meadow, Ernesto turns to me.

“You should let him off his leash, Mrs. Ricci,” he says. “Let the dog feel free.”

As if he can understand English, Biscotti yips as he looks up at me.

It’s as if he’s asking permission to do exactly what Ernesto suggested.

“Absolutely not, cookie-face,” I tell the puppy, scooping him up for a kiss. “Gina would have a fit if you ran off.”

I turn to Ernesto and force a smile. “Be careful what you say out loud. I swear that dog can understand English.”

To my surprise, Ernesto laughs.

“Sorry, Mrs. R. I’ll keep that in mind. I’ve walked Biscotti before, you know. He likes that path over there,” Ernesto says, pointing to an out-of-the-way area.

“Yes? It looks so remote.”

“That’s the point. They call it The Ramble. It’s shady from all the trees. And there’s a little cafe where you both can get a sip of water.”

“Okay. Lead the way.”

“Sure.”

Biscotti charges ahead, straining at his leash. Yet as I follow, I feel an uncomfortable sense of foreboding.

A weird twist in my gut.

I’m probably just still spooked from last night.

“Here’s the café, Mrs. R,” Ernesto says, his eyes already performing a slow, methodical sweep of the treeline and the patio patrons.