Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
Noah
Iam so full of pizza I could burst, but it was nice to eat without worrying about anything. I don’t remember the last time I ate until I was satisfied instead of just full enough to keep moving.
Okay, I ate more than usual so he wouldn’t feel bad about buying so much. He’s clearly not a pizza guy. He barely finished his third slice while I forced down my seventh.
While I chill in my joggers and hoodie, he's still dressed all prim and proper.
Even sitting on his own sofa, he looks like he's about to walk onto a television set. The film crew could burst in here at any moment, and he’s been screen-ready the entire time.
I, meanwhile, probably have tomato sauce down my chin.
“You were good with the camera today,” Rhys compliments, seeming lost for conversation.
“I was having the best day of my life. I was saving all the dogs. I wouldn't be any good if I didn't have something to focus on.”
He gives a dry chuckle, as if he knows I'm right but wishes I wasn't.
“I'll get out of your hair in a day or two. I'll start looking for jobs in the morning. “You won’t have to put up with me…”
“The producer wants to offer you a job.”
“On camera? I don't think…”
“Neither did I,” he interrupts again. “Especially with my… you know… but I gave it a try, and the practice is thriving now. Beyond my dreams.”
“You think I should take the job?”
“I think you need to see this through. Be part of the rehousing process. Visit the dogs in their new homes as part of the show.”
It would give me a little money to start my next job with. Enough to actually start over. Maybe even save toward my own place.
“You could do your veterinary nurse training here while you're filming.” He shrugs. That sentence lands harder than the film job offer.
Training.
A future.
I'm not sure of his motives. He doesn't want me here, invading his space, but he wants me to stay. To commit to a qualification, a job as a presenter. He wants me to see this through, but I don't know what this is.
He is a very private man, with good reason. Rhys Calder doesn't do anything without thinking three steps ahead.
Does he want to be friends, but knows he's going to need time to open up? Tying me here with commitments could just be his way of making that time.
“I'll need more information before I agree to anything.”
“Sure.” He shrugs dismissively, reaching for the TV remote. “The news channel is featuring us tonight. Putting out an appeal for your bosses to come forward.”
The news draws our attention to the screen. It's the farm, the dogs being brought out, and the happy wag of their tails to be outside.
My fingers grip the edge of the sofa as I search for myself on the feed. I don't breathe while I watch.
How will the camera see me? Evil kennel worker who failed to act in the dogs’ best interests? Poor, over-worked fool who couldn't save himself, let alone the dogs?
The camera pans around, following the path of Jolly. I know she's heading towards me; I'm braced and ready.
And there I am. Standing tall, looking confident. The police and veterinary nurses ask me questions, and I direct them with clear instructions.
I look good. Wow. For the first time in years, I like how I look. I look like someone who belongs there.
“The two brothers who operated the unlicensed breeding facility have not yet come forward. Police confirm they are assisting Trading Standards with enquiries and are urging owners Frank and Derek Hardwood to come forward to aid their investigations.”
“They won't show up now.” I maintain our narrative; neither of us liked slip ups and the more we built the story, the more natural it would come.
“Why not?” Rhys leans forward a little more.
“Because if they do, they’re admitting they ran it.” I try to maintain my innocent look, the one filling my face on camera. “If they're found guilty of running the farm, they could be looking at five years in prison, or fines and stuff. They won't come forward now.”
“You're probably right.”
“Run off to France to lie low in the sunshine.”
Rhys nods, his eyes fixed on me like he's pulling layers away to expose my soul. He watches me like a vet examining an animal for hidden injuries. If I can believe my words, hopefully he can too.
“I'll wash up.” His words are sudden, catching me off-guard.
Rhys stands too quickly, as if the room suddenly became too small.
He gathers what's left on the coffee table and hurries out of the room as if the leftovers are taunting him about the mess.
I pick up the remaining glasses and follow him out.
“I don't know whether to offer to help or give you space,” I call from the kitchen doorway.
“Space,” he replies quickly. “Put those down and make yourself at home. I'll be fine in five minutes.”
I obey and slip out of the kitchen. I get it. I really do. Outgoing vet by day, in the spotlight, in control, and his home is where he can relax. Let the mask slip. And now I'm here, reminding him of everything he can't control. The dogs, me. The fact that I know all about both of his lives.
I understand he needs space. I also understand that he needs time. If he wants me to leave, I will. Whether that's just moving out or moving to the other side of the country. If he wants me to stay… well, despite everything I know he's done, that's where I question his sanity.
Why would he want me?
My aimless wandering leads me into the one room downstairs I haven't been in yet.
I've seen the kitchen, living room, and dining room while texting two dead brothers this morning.
I resisted opening the closed door, didn't even check if it was locked.
Back then, I thought I'd be figuring things out for myself by now.
But he said to make myself at home, and here I am. Standing in his home office.
His veterinary certificate hangs on one wall; a few framed magazine covers surround it, all of him holding something cute.
No family, no holiday snaps, nothing personal.
Just Rhys, the vet. Maybe it's just workspace separation.
Maybe the personal stuff is somewhere else? Somewhere I haven't seen yet.
Veterinary textbooks line his bookshelf, organized in obsessively controlled height order, perfectly aligned against the front of the shelf.
My fingers move to the first in a group of books about veterinary nursing, intrigued by his suggestion to learn.
I pull it off the shelf, knowing I flunked high school biology.
After flicking through about three chapters, my gaze is drawn to the gap on the shelf.
Behind the missing book isn't space; it's polystyrene.
The books aren't perfectly aligned with the front of the shelf because he doesn't push them back, but because he's filled the gap behind them with polystyrene so they can't go back further.
A dangerous thought crosses my mind. If I was being this anal about order, my polystyrene would be secret compartments.
Twenty books come off the shelf one by one, lined on his desk in order so I can put them back perfectly. I pick the smallest ones, those needing more polystyrene behind and…
Nothing.
He's got no secret cutouts or hidden objects. He's just a boring guy with OCD.
A boring guy who kills people in his cellar.
Maybe not so boring.
Maybe clever.
If anyone searched this room, they wouldn't find any secrets, because secrets make people look deeper.
Having no secrets means people stop looking. It means people like me are disappointed, even knowing about the kill room.
I put the books back perfectly and turn to his desk. It's a monstrous mahogany beast with three drawers on either side and one small drawer across the middle.
The top is bare; no computer, no photo, nothing but three pens perfectly lined up, like this entire room is just for show. Sitting in his wide leather chair, I slide out the drawer, bracing for what I expect will be more souvenirs.
It's not what I was expecting.
It's worse in a way.
Foam, I think, or maybe sponge, fills the drawer, nurturing a line of slender instruments in perfectly sized cutouts. Perfect sliver implements sit in their perfect row, gleaming clean but probably holding more secrets than anything else in this room.
A scalpel.
A mean-looking pair of forceps.
Some kind of surgical saw.
Clamps.
These are all clean, perfect, not stored like tools, but displayed like something important. He has the means to clean and sterilize the surgical implements used downstairs, and I think I've found their hiding place.
My fingers hover over them, but I don’t touch. Not because I’m scared, but because I know exactly what they’ve already touched.
The pressure in the room shifts. Not a sound, just a presence, drawing my attention from the perfect row of deadly implements to the man now filling the doorway. His arrival doesn't make me jump; it makes me want to smile.
I don’t turn immediately. If he had wanted to stop me, he would have. He’s watching.
“You shouldn’t go through my things.” Rhys's voice calls from the doorway.
“Then don’t leave them where I can find them.” I glance up, smiling so he knows that I know what these are. If he wanted secrets, he should hide them better. And then I slide the drawer closed like I don't care.