Page 87 of The Way Back Home

Tears well in her eyes, and she turns away from me, hurrying down the stairs. The front door slams behind her. The car starts, and I lean back in my chair as all the air leaves my lungs in a rush.

Josiah stands in the doorway, staring at me with accusation in his eyes. You did this, he says without saying a word.I know. He walks away, thundering down the hall, and then the stairs, and the front door slams again. I don’t know where he’s going, or if he’ll be back at all. My little sister, my only remaining family, curls into me. Gut-wrenching sobs rack her tiny body.

“Shh. Come on now, Bett. You gotta breathe, darlin’.”

If anything, she wails louder, and a part of me knows exactly how she feels. I don’t want Olivia to leave any more than she does.

But we don’t always get what we want.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Olivia

FOR THE RECORD, SPENDINGthe night with an entire kennel full of dogs is never a wise idea. I barely have ten minutes of sleep before one dog barks, and then another, and then a whole chain of barking starts up, and Betty squeals, and the sound is so loud that my ears ring. It’s only temporary, I keep reminding myself, though I can’t be sure if that is true until I’m holding a new set of keys in my hands.

Now, I pack up my sleeping quarters and move the cot back to my office, and then I head to the bathroom. There’s a working toilet, thank the good Lord, and a mirror with a basin and fresh water. If I want to shower, I’ll have to use one of the doggy baths, which is so not happening. So I pull a little antiperspirant out of my purse and spray myself from head to toe. I tie a bandana around my throat, wincing at the pressure of the scratchy cloth against my wound, and I slick on some gloss and face powder, only because I need to look halfway presentable.

Yesterday, after I left Tanglewood, I called Georgia. She still had nothing for me, though this time, I think she actually looked. That meant there was one place I was headed, and I didn’t love the idea, but I knew if I wanted to wash in a shower that wasn’t intended for pooches, I was going to have to grovel.

I lock up and leave the shelter, and then I drive to Jude’s doorstep, where I’m hoping to catch him before he goes into consults or surgery. With Betty under one arm, I push the buzzer, and a voice comes over the intercom. “Hello?”

“Jude?”

There’s a brief pause, and an edge to his tone when he says, “Olivia?”

“Hi,” I say with a little wave of my hand. I don’t know if there’s a camera and if he can see me or not, but I guess it’s just reflex.

“Hi,” he says.Definitely an edge to his tone.

“So, I was kind of hoping we could talk,” I say, attempting to keep the desperation from my voice and failing miserably.

“About Betty?”

“Not exactly.”

“Hold on.” Jude’s footsteps echo up the hallway, and after pausing to fiddle with the lock, he opens the door.

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