Chapter 2 — The Note on the Door

A single sheet of white paper was taped at eye level, the letters pressed so hard into the page that the pen had nearly torn through.

MAX IS NO LONGER HERE. DO NOT MAKE A SCENE. COME DOWNSTAIRS AT 6:00 SHARP. I HAVE PREPARED A SPECIAL FAMILY DINNER TO WELCOME LITTLE PAIGE.

For a moment my brain refused to make sense of it. Max was our gentle twelve-year-old golden retriever mix — the guide dog who had walked my mother through the last years of her life before coming to us.

She slept on her foam cushion at the foot of Lia’s bed every night and pressed close whenever Lia woke from a nightmare.

Twelve is old for a dog that size. We knew what we had; we’d known for about a year that we were in the part of it you count in seasons. That is exactly why it mattered where she spent them.

I pulled the paper off the door and pushed it open.

Chapter 3 — The Empty Corner

The corner where Max’s big fleece bed always sat was bare — just clean floorboards where the dust had been wiped away. The water dishes were gone. Even the basket of squeaky toys had been carried out.

“Lia, where is she?” I asked, turning to my daughter. “Where’s Max?”

“Grandma said Max was gone for good.” Lia finally crumbled, burying her face in my side. “She said if I didn’t stop crying I’d ruin the party for Paige.”

Paige was my seven-year-old niece. The previous weekend she had said, in the way seven-year-olds say things, that Max’s cloudy eye looked gross and that it scared her — and somebody in that house had heard a small child say a small thing and decided to act on it.

Heat climbed the back of my neck, but I kept my voice even and kissed the top of Lia’s head.

“Go in your room, honey. Lock the door from the inside, and don’t open it for anyone until I come back up for you myself.”