“I might,” Vince challenges. He toes a bit closer to him, hovers over Reza where he’s down on his haunches.
“You don’t,” Reza says, level. He finally looks up, eyes nearing green in this lighting.
“I think I do,” Vince says, and there’s an edge to it. “That’s my dog, Reza, I want to know what happened.”
There’s a silent moment where Reza’s mouth thins and his eyes narrow. “I swung by to walk him since you had your conference,” he says, voice grating over his annoyance. “When I opened the door, I called for him and heard whimpering.”
Vince fights the urge to cringe and remains silent, holding Reza’s gaze.
Reza continues. “So I looked down, and he was laying here.” He pats the damp, pinked kitchen towels with the pads of two fingers. “Didn’t fancy watching him bleed out in front of me,
