CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Dr Colby Davidson sat in his black leather office chair, jotting down notes as his patient rambled on about how life was meaningless without her little Candy.
The elderly woman clutched a photo of her dearly departed Chihuahua in one hand and a pink, diamond-studded collar.
Davidson really didn’t get the appeal of toy dogs. Nevertheless, he listened patiently to what she was saying. He gave the appearance of being interested while being astounded that the dog’s grand funeral had cost more than he had paid for his Mercedes.
He was in his early forties and was a tall, thin man with black, greased-back hair, and he peered over small half-moon glasses that obscured his large dark eyes. He did not need those spectacles, no, they were plain glass, and he wore them to give
