Chapter 9
CHAPTER
NINE
I step onto the street outside the Fillmore an hour and a half later, phone gripped tight in my hand. As soon as I’ve ordered my Uber, I dial Randall.
“Is a zombie horde descending on downtown Denver?” he asks.
“Biggest story all year—if my brain doesn’t get eaten before I can write it.”
“Figured you must have a good reason to call me at my kid’s soccer game on a Sunday.”
I grimace. Then my ride, a red Subaru, pulls up to the curb, so I don’t waste any more words. “Can we meet first thing tomorrow before the staff meeting?”
“I . . . yes?” Randall pauses as I greet my driver and check her photo. “But I was planning to—”
“You’re going to want to make the time.”
Suspicion creeps into his voice. “Look, Caprice, if this is about covering PetExpo, I know it’s not your typical thing—”
“It isn’t about pets,” I say, buckling my seatbelt. “I need a little guidance.”
He doesn’t reply right away, and I can guess the look on his face. He makes this sound when he purses his lips, like a fish drowning in oxygen.
I glance at the driver and lower my voice. “I followed up on that lead you sent—the one you must’ve known I wouldn’t want?”
“Did you now?” he says, voice pitching with interest.
“Yeah. Don’t get proud.”
He chuckles. “All right. And something came of it?”
“You could say that.” My heart starts racing again, the way it did the whole last hour in that Fillmore hotel room. “Did you know who she really was when you sent her to me, Randall?”
“No. Why?” His tone is curious. “Anybody I should have recognized?”
I let out a long, low breath. “I want to talk about that raise you’re giving me. Your office, nine a.m.”
By the time my Uber drops me in front of my building, I’ve collected myself some.
Still jittery, but maybe less freaked out and a little more excited.
Unmatched was initially a hot story due to its scandalous nature alone.
But now that I know who founded it, there’s no way I can not write more about this.
Colin Vanderpool is the longtime CEO of Denver-based Green Industries, one of the biggest energy companies west of the Mississippi.
He’s also a major local philanthropist. He and his wife give enough money to arts and charitable organizations to have their names on half the museums and hospitals in the state. They’re basically Colorado royalty.
It makes sense now that I felt so targeted after the initial articles.
Mimi suggested her husband probably hired someone to scare me off.
And of course, it worked. I backed off the topic—hell, I considered leaving journalism.
But now I know who he is. I’m not foolish enough to think that guarantees my safety, especially against a person with so much influence.
In some ways, it’s scarier. But this whole experience has helped me remember that exposing abuses of power is one of the reasons journalism is so important.
If I don’t break this story, someone else will. And after all I’ve been through, after looking over my shoulder and losing sleep the last six months, I’ll be damned if I don’t at least get my rent money out of it.
My phone rings as I enter my building, but I bite my lip and send it to voicemail when I see my mom’s name pop up. I’ll call her back later. I just need to get home, change out of these stupid heels, and go for a run to try and figure out my next move.
But as the elevator door opens on my floor, I am greeted by a too-familiar shrieking sound, and my pulse immediately spikes. I forgot about the goddamn dog.
“Fuck,” I mutter when I see my neighbor Darius, a broad six-foot-four half-Samoan man, pounding on my door in his pajamas amid the howling.
“Dar—hey, I’m home,” I say, rushing down the hall.
He gives me a tolerant, bloodshot nod as I approach. Darius is an ER nurse over at Denver Health, and judging by the look on his face, he just got off a very long night shift.
Another shrieking, banshee-yell issues from my apartment as I fumble to get my key in the lock.
“You got a dog?” he asks, folding his arms.
“Um . . . it’s complicated,” I say, finally shoving the door open.
I’m terrified to look inside, and unnerved when I find my apartment whole.
Unmarred. Well, except for the already half-eaten couch.
And the giant dog crate, which is now halfway across the room from where it had been sitting beside my bed.
Inside, I see flashes of tan and black as the dog spins, barks, and cries to be let out.
I set my purse on the counter and dash over to open the door so he’ll shut the hell up.
Which is a mistake.
The dog shoots out past me, snarling and charging straight for Darius, who is still standing in my open door.
“Rufus, no! Sit! Oh fu—”
But before he can spring from the floor to rip out my neighbor’s jugular, Darius kneels and holds out his palm. “Hey, boy.” Rufus stops in his tracks, posture stiff. He gives him a cautious sniff, still emitting a low growl. “Oh my, you’re vicious, aren’t you?” Darius says in a playful tone.
Rufus eyes him a moment longer, then sneezes and licks his hand, wagging his tail.
Very gently, Darius reaches under Rufus’s chin and strokes his neck.
“H-how did you . . . ?” I rasp.
My neighbor sits back on his heels and gives me a relieved look, like he hadn’t been sure how that would pan out either.
“Todd’s sister is a K-9 officer up in Longmont.
First time her shepherd ran at me like that, I nearly peed my pants.
” He gives a tired laugh. “She told me it’s my size they don’t like. ”
He rises back up to his full height, but apparently has passed the Rufus test, because the dog comes to stand by my side, nudging me with his cold nose.
I pull my hand away.
“Um, wow. I’m glad you knew that,” I say, reaching for Rufus’s leash. Darius does look intimidating at first glance, but he and his boyfriend, Todd, are literally the sweetest couple in my building.
Darius glances around my apartment and whistles. “Ouch. He do that to your couch?”
“Yeah,” I say, dragging my hand over my face.
“What’s his name? Where’d you get him from?”
“His name is Rufus.” I wince when I think of Kyle’s will, trying to come up with a condensed story for my neighbor. “Um, I sort of inherited him. He’s an ex-military dog.”
His eyes widen. “Well, I hate to be a bitch, but I just finished a twelve-hour shift and I couldn’t sleep with all that noise.”
“I’m so sorry.” My shoulders tighten. “I didn’t know he was going to do that. I’ll make sure he’s quiet the rest of the day.”
“Thanks, Caprice.” He stoops to pet Rufus again, who hops up to lick his face. Darius laughs. “Oh man, you’re some scary bomb dog.”
I follow him into the hall with Rufus on his leash since I’m not taking chances with poop anymore. “My friend says he probably has some issues since he was military.”
“Ya think?” Darius chuckles, returning to his own door. “Apparently he doesn’t like that crate. Hey, you want me to ask Todd’s sister for advice? Police dogs might be similar.”
“Would you?” I raise my brows, hitting the button for the elevator. “That’s a great idea, thank you.”
“Sure.” He rubs the dog’s head one last time. “Nice to meet you, Rufus. Hope not to hear you in my dreams.”
I dial Lydia as soon as we’re on the street. “Hey, what do I need to do if I want to bring Rufus to The Pooch Park tomorrow?”
“Um . . .” She hesitates. “You could time travel and get on our waitlist two months ago?”
I start to laugh, but quickly sober when she doesn’t join in. “That’s not some woo-woo manifesting talk, is it? You’re really booked?”
“Achievement unlocked,” she says, sounding a little guilty. “We had to start turning people away after the holidays.”
“Wow, that’s . . .” I inhale deeply through my nose, glancing at the dog calmly sniffing the sidewalk beside me. Who apparently only loses his mind when I leave. “That’s amazing, Lydia. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” she says, excitement palpable through the receiver. “But even if I could squeeze him in, I doubt Rufus would be ready for daycare tomorrow.”
“Oh . . . um, why?”
“He needs some established normalcy first,” she says, like this should have occurred to me. “The poor dog lost Kyle, then lived with a foster for who knows how long. Then your brother swept in and flew him across the country, and now he’s living with a woman he doesn’t know or trust.”
“Why wouldn’t he trust me?” I frown, thinking about the creepy dude in the hall yesterday, and the way Rufus stood by the door and growled. “I thought dogs had instincts about people.”
She snorts. “Sure. What do you suppose Heartthrob’s instincts tell him about you?”
I scowl. I tolerate Lydia’s dog slightly better than I tolerate her husband.
“I’m just saying,” she says more gently, “Starting daycare will be too much for him right now. First, you need to get to know each other better.”
“Okay, fine. We’ll start having date nights. But in the meantime, I need to be able to go to work, and this crate thing is not happening.”
“What do you mean?”
I grit my teeth. “I mean, I fed and walked him this morning just like you told me, and then I put him in there and left to do an interview. But according to my neighbor, he acted out scenes from The Exorcist the whole time I was gone.”
“Oh . . . that’s a problem.”
“Exactly.” The dog rounds the corner and I follow with a sigh, waiting while he lifts his leg on a lamppost. “Lydia, I have to be able to leave him. I’m working on this story, and I just—I have a meeting tomorrow at nine. I have to go to work.”
“Right, okay. I just need to think . . .” Her tone doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. “Any chance you can work remotely for a while?”
I’m about to tell her exactly why that isn’t an option when my phone vibrates and I glance at the screen. A glimmer of hope blooms in my chest. “Hang on. Darius just sent some kind of possibility. I’ll call you later.”