What flies out at us is not big and scary but, instead, small, soft, and furry. Taco the dog. She’s crying, and judging by the matted locks on the face, she’s been crying for some time. Handing Sam the knife, I bend down and pick her up. She’s trembling.
“Oh baby, Taco,” I say. “What happened to you?”
I carry her into the kitchen. A kitchen that was always such a warm and inviting place for my whole family, but that now seems as cold and frightening as a basement morgue.
“We need to call the police,” I say. “911.”
Sam holds up both hands like he’s asking me to calm down. My immediate reaction is to slap him. How dare he tell me to calm down? But then, he’s absolutely right. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. Maybe the kids are outside enjoying the afternoon with Robyn. Maybe her phone is
