Page 26 of Fang Fatale

Birdie is kneeling in the grass beside an elderly dachshund with silver whiskers and tired eyes. She adjusts the little dog’s harness, speaking too softly for me to hear. Whatever she says earns a tentative wag.

The dachshund leans into her.

Birdie smiles.

Not the careful, restrained curve she gave me outside the bakery. This smile transforms her. It loosens something in her shoulders and turns her face toward the light.

She gathers the dog into her arms with infinite care.

Leland Brooks described a woman coming apart at the seams.

The woman cradling that old dog looks peaceful.

I watch a moment longer than necessary.

Then the dachshund licks her chin, and Birdie laughs.

My grip tightens on the steering wheel.

Every instinct I had screamed the same thing.

I wasn't investigating Birdie Longfellow anymore.

I was investigating Leland Brooks.

CHAPTER 6

BIRDIE

Iarrive at the Haven an hour before closing, hoping to avoid the Monday volunteers and any chance of running into one of Leland's cronies. The rescue's lights are already blazing, the air humming with bleach, coffee, and the hopeful chaos that always seems to cling to places like this.

Penny, the world's most aggressively cheerful receptionist, spots me the moment I slip through the front door.

"Birdie! Back so soon? Did you bring more towels or just your dazzling personality?"

I hold up a sack of chicken treats and a bag of squeaky toys.

"How are the dachshunds today?"

"Comically low to the ground. Like someone built a dog from spare parts and poor decisions." She grins. "Barnaby's waiting in kennel three."

I weave through the rows of wire kennels, passing half-asleep occupants and the handful already campaigning for an early breakfast.

Barnaby is exactly where she promised.

His graying eyebrows droop over tired brown eyes, and his long little body trembles the moment he sees me.

"Morning, B."

I crouch on the cold concrete, and he barrels into me with surprising determination before collapsing into a warm, wiggly heap against my knees. His tail thumps furiously while he licks my hands as though I've been gone for years instead of two days.

"Miss me?"

He sneezes in response.

Close enough.

Ruth, the shelter manager, appears behind me carrying two travel mugs and a disgruntled tabby tucked beneath one arm.