I casually pull away from his bicep grip. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I prattle. And I call out, “Mr. Gray! Come boy! Come, Mr. Gary!” Seconds later, I hear the greyhound’s nails click on hardwood floors and his identification tags clinking together. Soon he emerges from the kitchen or dining room—somewhere. I pull out the leash from my back pocket, use it on my boy’s collar, and hurriedly ask Putnam, “Can you drop your house key off in my mailbox? I’m going to be busy before you leave.”
“Yes. Yes. Of course. Whatever you want.”
It’s a quick exit on my part: I head to the foyer as Mr. Gray leads the way; Putnam rushes at my side with a palm on the nape of my back; Mr. Gray sniffs a knee-high Ottoman vase in the foyer and almost knocks it over; I catch it before it falls to the floor; Pu
