My laughter echoes in the evening air. The Bennetts' faces crumble like sandcastles hit by waves.
"You think I'm here for a reunion?" I wipe my eyes. "I'm here for my dog."
Grace's arms fall to her sides. Her grandmother act dissolves. "Noah, please. Let's discuss this inside like civilized people."
"We were never civilized. You made sure of that."
I stride past their reception line toward the front door. They scramble to follow me, their careful choreography forgotten.
Inside, nothing has changed. The same cold marble floors. The same portraits of dead Bennetts staring down with disapproval. The same oppressive atmosphere that made me feel suffocated for three years.
Lucky's whimpering comes from the living room.
I rush toward the sound and stop dead.
My golden retriever lies on his expensive dog bed, his right front paw wrapped in pristine white bandages. His tail thumps weakly when he sees me.
But he's not crying in agony. He's not writhing in pain.
He's fine.
