The morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Lancaster Industries' Manhattan headquarters. I sit behind my mahogany desk, reviewing quarterly projections, when my phone buzzes.
Liam Bennett's name flashes on the screen.
"Noah, thank God you answered." His voice carries forced panic. "It's Lucky. He's badly hurt."
My blood runs cold. "What happened?"
"He fell down the stairs. His paw is twisted at a horrible angle. He keeps crying and looking toward the door like he's waiting for someone." A pause. "I think he's asking for you, Noah."
The sound of Lucky's whimpering comes through the phone. My chest tightens. That little dog was the only source of warmth in that cold house during my three years of marriage.
"Is that him crying?" I ask, though I already know.
"Yes. He won't let anyone touch him. He just keeps whimpering your name."
Something feels off about this call. The timing is too convenient. But Lucky's cries are real.
"I'll be right there," I say.
