The Edge

Chapter 13

Part of me is relieved when I don't hear from Luke by Saturday morning. A small part. The reckless part of me, which makes up more of my content than I'd previously realized, is impatient and irked that he hasn't felt the need to contact me. From what I understand, Luke and his lawyer met with detectives Thursday evening. I'm sure counsel has told him to keep his mouth shut by now, but would it really hurt to give me a call? A text? Or maybe in his case, send a messenger owl? I'm tempted to initiate, but don't want to butt in where I'm not wanted.

Wes is all for going no contact, of course. My lack of leads and stalled investigation has him whistling cheerfully as he leaves for his job today.

"Heigh ho, heigh ho, it's off to work we go," I taunt.

"Mock all you want, just don't get yourself poisoned while I'm gone," he shoots back. "Better not be any old hags or, for that matter, any murder suspects here when I come home. Promise?"

I beam him a smile. "Cross my heart and hope to die." I might forbear bringing home a suspect, but he's going have a surprise waiting for him when he returns nonetheless. A smelly, slobbering, butt-dragging surprise.

Ever since I arrived to Edgewater, I've lacked a sense of security, which I admit is largely of my own making. The mood and tensions of the town haven't done anything to bolster my feelings, either. I hate the swell of powerlessness growing in me; I detest the frustration, the trepidation, and most of all this persistent need to stick my nose where it doesn't belong. My days leave me troubled, while nights bring on a restless unease. I should probably try therapy, but I've always preferred band-aid solutions.

That's how I find myself at the animal shelter, eager to select a new best friend and protector. I've never had a dog before, but I've always wanted one; now seems as good a time as any to force one to live with me. Having a dog around is a great deterrent to criminals, I rationalize. Besides, caring for a dog can't possibly be any more troublesome than looking after Wes. Perhaps being responsible to another hapless creature will distract me from morbid, unhealthy thoughts.

Eh...not so much.

Strolling past row after row of abandoned animals provides just another reminder of human depravity. The shelter is crammed with castaways of all shapes, colors and sizes. Some yap frantically or howl as I pass, others cower silently in the corner of their enclosure. No matter the reaction, each animal oozes despair and desperation.

I halt abruptly in from of a cage and stare at the name plastered out front. "You've got to be kidding me."

The dog in question is one of the silent types. "Mowgli," as the tag proclaims him, approaches the cage door with caution. Black as pitch, he has a spark of intelligence burning up his eyes and a wild, wolfish look about him. I find him positively enchanting. According to the posted information, he is a five year old German Shepherd mix who's spent far too much time languishing in the shelter.

Luckily for him, I've recently taken up the mantle as Liberator of the Unjustly Incarcerated and Champion of the Unwanted, and so I decree his sentence ends today.

***

Fortunately, my capricious, life-altering decision to run out and adopt a dog turns out to be the best choice I've made since moving to Edgewater. Which, I realize, isn't saying much.

Mowgli proves to be an amazing distraction from my worries. First of all, not only is he cleaner than my brother, he might be on par, intelligence wise. It's apparent that there will be no chasing of tails or battles against laser pointers. No barking at reflections in the mirror. Somebody's already put in the hard work for me; Mo seems impressively trained in obedience and responds to a number of commands and tricks. Being an older dog, he's also much calmer than I expected him to be. According to the shelter, he was dropped off after his owner's death, and though obviously well-trained, his appearance scared away most potential adopters. It occurs to me that he's something like Luke in that regard. Also...just putting this out there...Luke would probably look pretty stunning himself in a spiked collar. After a quick spending spree at the local pet store, Mowgli is living the canine equivalent of a rags to riches tale. My cat, Frodo, isn't quite as thrilled by this development, but to his credit, Mo isn't at all put off by the death stares and angry yowls hurled his way.