6. Birdie
BIRDIE
Iarrive at the Haven an hour before closing, hoping to avoid the Monday volunteers and any chance of running into one of Leland's cronies. The rescue's lights are already blazing, the air humming with bleach, coffee, and the hopeful chaos that always seems to cling to places like this.
Penny, the world's most aggressively cheerful receptionist, spots me the moment I slip through the front door.
"Birdie! Back so soon? Did you bring more towels or just your dazzling personality?"
I hold up a sack of chicken treats and a bag of squeaky toys.
"How are the dachshunds today?"
"Comically low to the ground. Like someone built a dog from spare parts and poor decisions." She grins. "Barnaby's waiting in kennel three."
I weave through the rows of wire kennels, passing half-asleep occupants and the handful already campaigning for an early breakfast.
Barnaby is exactly where she promised.
His graying eyebrows droop over tired brown eyes, and his long little body trembles the moment he sees me.
"Morning, B."
I crouch on the cold concrete, and he barrels into me with surprising determination before collapsing into a warm, wiggly heap against my knees. His tail thumps furiously while he licks my hands as though I've been gone for years instead of two days.
"Miss me?"
He sneezes in response.
Close enough.
Ruth, the shelter manager, appears behind me carrying two travel mugs and a disgruntled tabby tucked beneath one arm.
"Still going through with it?" she asks.
"Absolutely."
She hands me one of the mugs before nodding toward Barnaby.
"He has issues. Leaks at inconvenient times, terrified of thunderstorms, and he's declared war on most shoes."
I smile.
"We all have issues."
Her expression softens.
Two weeks ago, she'd found me bruised, crying, and unable to explain whose blood stained my shirt. She never asked questions. She simply tucked me into the supply closet between the pee pads and an incontinent border collie until morning.
Some kindnesses are louder than words.
Without another comment, she slides the adoption paperwork across the counter.
I read every page.
Then I read them again.
Old habits.
Old survival instincts.
Contracts had taught me that the most dangerous words were usually buried in the smallest print.
I linger over every clause before finally reaching the signature line.
Birdie Longfellow.
Just my name.
No permission.
No approval.
No one waiting to tell me I'd signed the wrong place.
I press the pen to paper.
One smooth signature.
One simple choice.
Mine.
Ruth flips through the pages, stamps the final sheet with theatrical flair, and smiles.
"Congratulations. You've officially adopted a creature less functional than most houseplants."
She scratches Barnaby behind the ears.
"No take-backs."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
The staff gathers to say goodbye while I wrestle Barnaby into an oversized orange sweater and clip on his tiny harness. He leans against my legs as if he's already decided I'm home.
Maybe...
I've decided the same thing.
He's heavier than I remembered, or maybe I've simply forgotten what it feels like to carry something precious instead of burdensome.
Either way, I don't mind.
I settle him carefully into the passenger seat before climbing behind the wheel.
For a few quiet moments, neither of us moves.
Barnaby sniffs the dashboard.
I stare through the windshield.
Leland always said pets were distractions.
"They're expensive."
"They're messy."
"They demand too much attention."
At the time, I'd believed him.
Now I know the truth.
He didn't want anything competing for my affection.
Not friends.
Not hobbies.
Certainly not a dog who might remind me that love isn't supposed to come with conditions.
I reach across the console and scratch beneath Barnaby's graying chin.
"You're my first real pet, little man."
His tail gives one lazy thump.
I start the engine.
Instead of taking the quickest route home, I choose the scenic one. Partly for the view.
Partly because I'm still getting used to making choices simply because I want to.
Barnaby sticks his nose toward the cracked window, inhaling the cool morning air before sneezing three times in rapid succession.
Then he pees all over my passenger-side floor mat.
I blink.
He blinks back.
"Well," I sigh.
"Welcome home."
By the time we pull into the drive, Barnaby has claimed the passenger seat as his own.
My little cottage sits exactly where I left it, tucked beneath the trees, hidden behind Dandy's wards and more luck than good planning. For the first time in years, home doesn't feel like a place someone else chose for me.
It feels like mine.
I carry Barnaby inside, spread a stack of towels across the living room floor, and help him settle onto the couch. He circles twice before collapsing with a contented groan that sounds suspiciously human.
"I'm glad one of us knows how to relax."
I laugh softly to myself as I sort through the bag of toys.
A knock echoes against the wooden gate surrounding the property.
Not loud.
Just firm.
My smile disappears.
I know exactly who it is.
I scoop Barnaby into my arms and step onto the porch, pulling the front door closed behind me.
Alaric stands just beyond the ward, one hand tucked into the pocket of his dark coat, the other holding a brown paper bag.
He offers a crooked smile.
"I come in peace."
I fold my arms a little tighter around Barnaby.
"So did the Trojan Horse."
His eyebrows lift.
"...That's actually a fair point."
Despite myself, the corner of my mouth twitches.
He notices.
Of course he notices.
"I brought breakfast," he says, lifting the bag. "One cinnamon scone for you."
He glances at Barnaby.
"And one plain biscuit for the distinguished gentleman."
Barnaby's nose begins working overtime.
Traitor.
"I appreciate the gesture," I say carefully, "but I'm not inviting anyone in."
"I wasn't expecting you to."
Without taking another step, he crouches and places the bag on the ground just outside the ward.
Then he straightens and deliberately backs away several feet.
"See?"
His hands lift in surrender.
"I'm respecting the line."
I study him for a long moment.
"You could probably cross it if you wanted."
"Probably."
"But you didn't."
"No."
"Why?"
He shrugs one shoulder.
"Because boundaries only mean something if the other person respects them."
The words settle somewhere deep inside me.
Leland had never respected a boundary in his life.
If I said no, he heard convince me.
If I asked for space, he heard follow me.
If I wanted something different...
He simply decided I didn't.
Alaric waits.
No pressure.
No impatience.
Just...waiting.
Finally, he nods toward Barnaby.
"First dog?"
I smile down at the sleepy dachshund tucked against my chest.
"The first one I've ever been allowed to have."
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
For a heartbeat, I wish I could pull them back.
Alaric doesn't ask what I mean.
He doesn't say he's sorry.
He doesn't pry.
He simply nods once, as though I've handed him an important piece of evidence.
"I think he picked well."
I blink.
"What?"
"You."
Barnaby lets out a satisfied sigh, blissfully unaware he's just become the emotional center of an awkward conversation.
I clear my throat.
"You know why you're really here."
"Yes."
"Leland hired you."
"He did."
"You'll take me back eventually."
Silence stretches between us.
Finally, Alaric answers.
"I haven't decided what I'm going to do."
I frown.
"I thought detectives always knew."
"No."
A faint smile touches his lips.
"We just get paid to pretend we do."
I stare at him, searching for the catch.
There always used to be one.
But all I find is a vampire standing politely outside a magical boundary with pastries growing cold at his feet.
"I don't have enough money to change your mind," I say quietly.
His expression softens.
"This was never about your money."
Before I can ask what that means, he tips an imaginary hat toward Barnaby.
"Take care of the old man."
"I will."
"And try not to let him redecorate the passenger seat again."
My eyes widen.
"You knew?"
"I've met dachshunds."
He turns and starts down the path without another word.
I wait until he's disappeared beyond the trees before opening the gate just wide enough to retrieve the paper bag.
The cinnamon still smells warm.
Back inside, Barnaby claims the couch with the confidence of a dog who has already forgotten he spent months in a kennel.
I break off a piece of the biscuit for him before settling beside him with my scone.
Outside, the world carries on.
Inside, the cottage is quiet.
Peacefully quiet.
Barnaby presses his warm little body against my leg with a sleepy sigh.
No one is telling me what I'm allowed to want.
No one is deciding what comes next.
Maybe freedom doesn't arrive all at once.
Maybe it arrives one choice at a time.
Today, I chose an old dachshund.
And for the first time in years...
I chose myself.