Chapter 8 Marcus
MARCUS
I’m not a morning person by nature. I’m a morning person by discipline.
Springsteen, Muse, and that ridiculous Sinatra remix pour into my earbuds as I hit my favorite Chelsea loop past the High Line, down along the river, and back through the streets where the city’s still shaking itself awake. The rhythm grounds me, my breath syncing with the beat.
But my head? It’s nowhere near the run.
I know people at Macy’s. If I wanted to, I could pick up the phone and have Iris Vaughn’s file in front of me before I finish my coffee. Getting her to lunch, or dinner, wouldn’t be a problem. I could make an excuse. Hell, I could make a dozen.
The question is, what’s the real excuse?
I turn onto Tenth, and another runner lifts a hand. I nod back, my pace steady. I have two miles left before I end up at the clinic.
There’s movement behind me where there shouldn’t be any. It’s low, tentative.
I slow down, tug one earbud free, and look back.
I don’t recognize it. But I know what’s clenched in its jaws. My cushion. The yellow silk one I’d written off weeks ago. Once lustrous and pristine, it’s now dulled with dirt and frayed at the seams, but still carried like it’s worth a fortune.
The stray now looks like a walking blanket, steadier on his legs. The limp is still there, but it’s less pronounced. Liam’s handiwork.
“Blanket,” I say, slowing to a jog and inviting him to match my pace.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he stops and watches me.
I pull to a halt too, and drop into my cooldown stretches while he hovers at a distance. His tail twitches, indecisive.
“You kept it,” I say. “Yellow silk does suit your coat.”
His paws shuffle, his nose brushing the fabric, torn between moving closer and bolting.
I don’t push. I don’t clap or call. I know the value of patience and the power in leaving space open.
“When you’re ready,” I tell him, “you’ll know where to find me.”
For a second, he drops the cushion.
“You want me to come closer?” I take a step. Then another. I’m two feet away now. I’m close enough that I can see his eyes, knowing and hitting hard.
“You trying to tell me something, boy? You wanna show me where your mom is?”
His ears twitch.
I edge closer, and he snaps the cushion back up and bolts faster than I’d ever guess was possible from a dog who once looked like a Chelsea sorry case.
I straighten, hands on my hips, and watch him vanish into the waking streets.
Not bad, I think, for a mutt who used to be nothing more than abandoned skin and bones.
Although no one else is sorrier than I am.
Iris Vaughn.
What the hell am I supposed to do with you?