Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Monday morning, I am suddenly and unfortunately stricken with a stomach flu so bad I have to call out of work from my bathroom floor.
Or, this is the situation I describe in my email to Randall, taking care to include a couple of well-placed typos and the suggestion I might be contagious.
This should give me at least forty-eight hours to figure out what to do with Rufus—maybe three days if I push.
In the meantime, I research dog sitters.
Make an appointment with a vet. And at Lydia’s suggestion, leave messages for a few other trainers.
One never returns my call. The second suggests I find a psychic to help Rufus.
The third says she can come over at two o’clock.
In between phone calls and dog walks, I sift through the file folder Mimi Vanderpool sent home with me, which is chock full of photographs, emails, and other documentation connecting her husband to the Unmatched app beyond any shadow of a doubt.
But listening back through our interview is what lights a fire under me.
I’m not someone who’s easily moved, but I get a lump in my throat all over again hearing her describe years of standing by her husband’s side while he lavished affection on other women and encouraged the men around him to follow his lead.
The quaver of betrayal in her voice convinces me I have to make this story hers.
Give her back some of the power he took away.
I have plenty of material to do it in a riveting, lengthy feature, but I’m desperate to consult with my editor before I begin.
And pissed at my ex’s dog for getting in the way of that.
By afternoon, I decide to just get it out of my system and start writing, drawing a new portrait of a man most people in Denver think they already know: Colin Vanderpool—energy executive, arts benefactor, and founder of a notorious married cheaters app.
Theo would lose his shit if he knew I was pursuing this.
He raged about the base-level hate mail and messages I received before the Unmatched articles.
After I pissed off all those cheating men last year and he saw how much it intensified, I thought he was going to drop in from a helicopter and extract me to a safe house.
Which is why I’m glad I didn’t mention this lead when he asked how things were going. As much time as he spends worrying about my safety, I’m not the one in the top-secret, high-danger, people-shoot-at-you profession. He doesn’t need extra distractions.
Rufus starts what I’ve come to think of as his low-level bathroom whining a little before noon.
“Let me guess. Time to pee on trees?” I ask.
He tilts his head.
“Fantastic,” I say, grabbing my earbuds and his leash. “Now I’m having conversations with you like all the other nutjob dog people.”
Despite the sleet and cold yesterday, it’s almost seventy degrees by the time we walk outside.
Typical bipolar spring in Colorado. Blue skies stretch for miles up and down the Front Range, making the snow-capped mountains to the west stand out in high relief.
Reminding every single resident why they live in the Mile High City.
Since we still have a couple of hours before the trainer shows up, and I’m never going to see the inside of a gym again, I head for the park this time instead of rounding the block.
The trail around the edge of Washington Park is crowded in the mild weather, and after seeing Rufus lose his mind at those other dogs yesterday, I keep the leash looped over my thumb the way the dog guru showed me.
I have to admit it does seem to give me more control.
But I hate that Drew Forbes had any useful advice to offer.
My phone rings as we walk around the lake on the south end of the park, and I’m not surprised so much as resigned when I see my mother’s name on the screen.
The Zen half of me wants to ignore the call, keep this time to myself to enjoy the weather and collect my thoughts.
But my guilty half has teeth, gnashing at my own needs.
I am her only reachable child. It’s my duty to answer, to fill some ill-defined void while my brother’s gone.
“Hey, Mom. I was just about to—”
“How are you, Caprice?”
Her tone gives me pause. The last time I spoke to my mother, she was trying to convince me to attend some sort of luncheon benefit for her art gallery. A passion she returned to after retiring from school administration.
“I’m . . . fine. Did you and Theo have a good visit?”
She sighs. “Too brief, but yes. And I suppose I have you to thank for seeing him at all before he shipped out.” Her voice sobers. “I heard about Kyle's dog. How is it going?”
Ohh. This.
“Um, I’m going to need a new couch. But otherwise, I’m handling it.” I glance at the dog as if he might have some opinion to add.
My mom pauses, waiting for more. And I know exactly what she wants, but it will hurt too much to give it to her. Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop her from pushing.
“This must be so difficult to deal with after only a year . . .”
Her words disappear under the buzzing in my ears. My grip tightens around the leash. I take a hard left off the path into the trees, but not before the inside of my chest starts disintegrating.
I have grieved Kyle Forbes on so many levels—before and after he died. When he left to enlist in the military. When he came back a shadow of the man I’d kissed goodbye. When he returned to the service rather than marry me.
And finally, when he left us all for the last time.
I stumble toward a tree, sinking down against its trunk before my knees completely fail me. The dog watches, clearly confused, but when he attempts to lick my face, I push him away. I can’t bring myself to look into his eyes, knowing they must have been the last eyes Kyle stared into.
My mom waits. I rest my head on my knees. And when I speak, I change the subject. “How was the new opening this month?”
There’s a pause. Mom definitely likes to push. But if there’s one thing I appreciate about her, it’s that she can also tell when to back off.
“Oh, it was phenomenal,” she says. “I wish you’d been able to see it.”
By the time she’s finished raving about the new photographer she discovered, I’ve dragged myself back to my feet.
I’m taking a first hesitant step toward the jogging path when a flicker of movement catches my eye.
It seems the dog noticed it too because he turns his head in the same direction.
And for just a moment, I think I see a figure through the trees.
Someone tall, with dark hair and glasses.
But when I stop and really look, no one is there at all. My neck prickles.
“You have to come to First Friday in April,” Mom continues. “It’s been ages since you made it, and there are so many fun people I can introduce you to.”
Translation: there are men she wants me to meet.
I straighten, putting my shields back into place.
As someone who has generally fared better with fewer men in her life, it still shocks me when my mom takes up this cause.
But maybe that’s one of the reasons I’ve been avoiding First Friday.
“I’ll think about it for sure, Mom. Just need Rufus to settle in a bit first.”
The dog looks up at his name, perhaps detecting some minute gratitude in my voice.
I can give him that—he’s a convenient excuse.
I want to support the new life my mother is carving out for herself in retirement.
But of all people, does she really think I can fill the hole in my heart with the right man?
“Oh, Caprice.” She chuckles. “I can’t believe Theo got you to agree to this.”
I curl my lip, tossing a bag of poop into a trash can as I exit the park. “Me neither.”
At two o’clock sharp, I buzz in Sara Radcliffe, the third dog trainer on Lydia’s list. She’s a short, curvy strawberry blonde who focuses entirely on Rufus from the moment she walks in.
My apartment soon reeks of hot dogs from the endless supply of tiny pieces she feeds him, but he takes no time to decide she’s an acceptable visitor, so I guess I can’t knock her strategy.
“This is mostly a meet-and-greet so we can get a sense of each other and decide if we’ll be a good fit.” She looks around my apartment. “I understand you just got him, but are you planning to move to a bigger place?”
“Uh, no. I hadn’t considered it.”
A look I can’t quite process passes over her face. “This is a really small space for a dog like this.”
“Well, I inherited him,” I say too sharply. “And I renewed my lease right before that, so moving’s not really an option.”
Her mouth presses into a line, but she turns back to Rufus, running through a few basic commands—sit, down, stay—all of which he seems eager to follow.
“You said he’s a retired military working dog? Do you know why they retired him so young?”
My mood darkens, and Kyle drifts through my mind. “No.”
She doles out more hot dogs from her fanny pack, eyeballing the couch carcass. “I’m guessing he did that?”
I clear my throat. “Um, yeah. He kind of flips out if I leave him alone.”
She nods at the crate. “How about if you put him in there?”
“He goes inside it fine.” I shrug. “But my neighbors have a problem with the nonstop screaming when I’m gone.”
“That sounds about right . . .”
“For what?” I ask, trying to hide the desperation in my voice. “Please. I—I just need to know where to start. I do want to try and make this work.”
These words surprise me. But even as they come tumbling out of my mouth, I glance at Rufus and realize I mean it.
I don’t love him. I’ve never been a dog person, and I’m sure I never will be.
But I couldn’t leave the one creature Kyle Forbes actually loved at a shelter.
And what are my other options? Give him to someone else?
I picture Drew Forbes at his training business, rubbing his hands together like an eager villain.
God. Why, Kyle?
“I’ve just never had a dog before . . .”
Sara raises her eyebrows like that was the obvious statement of the year. But to my relief, she offers a sympathetic smile. “I can tell you’re trying.”
“You can?”
She laughs. “You’re here, talking to a dog trainer, after he terrorized your neighbors and did that to your sofa.” Her smile fades. “Some people abandon animals in the mountains for less.”
I press my lips together. I might have spent the last seventy-two hours cleaning shit off my floor and cursing my dead ex, but I can’t imagine doing something like that.
Sara sinks to the edge of the dead couch, right in a large patch of dog hair.
“Look, I’ll be honest,” she says. “Most of what I do is pretty basic. Obedience training new puppies, teaching them to heel.” Rufus plants himself in front of her, and she reaches out to rub his velvety ears.
“But this guy already knows all that. He’s had rigorous training—he knows his commands.
I just think he’s also had some trauma.”
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know Theo must’ve mentioned that.
“But when Drew warned me not to take you as a client, I have to admit I was curious.”
Suddenly the air feels thicker. Heavier. “I’m sorry . . . Drew? Forbes?”
“He can be a dick, right?” She shakes her head. “We dated a couple of times—small industry. But honestly, I’ve had more engaging conversations with a block of wood.”
I blink, trying to comprehend the scope of what she’s saying. Did he somehow know who I would reach out to?
“But why would—he actually called you up and warned you not to work with me?”
“It wasn’t quite like that,” she admits. “He said he was trying to save me some trouble because the dog didn’t need a trainer . . . and he was right.”
“Really,” I say, balling my fists up to conceal my rage as I imagine Drew Forbes casually calling every dog trainer in Denver, telling them to stay away from me.
She just laughs while Rufus licks hot dog off her fingers.
“So, what did the dog guru think he needs?” I say in a flat voice.
Sara shrugs, drops her hands to her lap, and gives me a reluctant smile. “I’ll just tell you what I think. When you have a dog who’s experienced trauma, especially if you’re not quite sure what kind, it’s usually best to consult a behaviorist.”
My stomach sinks. I have a feeling I already know what she’s going to say, but I have to ask anyway.
“Who would you suggest?”