Chapter 2
Clara turned away from the glass door, letting out a long, measured breath that fogged slightly in the cooling shop. The Golden Retriever had not moved an inch. It stood heavily on the linoleum floor, a growing puddle of brown water pooling around its mud-caked paws. The silence in Paws & Polish was absolute, save for the rhythmic hum of the grooming table's overhead fluorescent light and the steady patter of rain against the storefront window.
Kneeling on the hard floor, Clara approached the animal with deliberate slowness. She understood dogs; she knew that fear often manifested as aggression, but this animal radiated a strange, heavy sorrow. Reaching into her apron pocket, she retrieved a soft grooming brush and a small pair of blunt-nosed medical scissors. She began the tedious work of cutting away the dense mats of cockleburs clinging to the dog’s flanks. The fur was so compacted near the skin that it formed a felted shell, hiding whatever lay beneath.
"Easy now, big guy," Clara murmured softly, her voice pitched low and soothing. The dog let out a low, vibrating rumble in its chest, a sound that wasn't a growl, but rather an acknowledgment of her presence.
She picked up the small hair clipper, switching it on with a quiet, mechanical buzz. The dog flinched momentarily, its muscles tensing under her fingers, but it quickly settled back down, resting its heavy head on its muddy front paws. Clara carefully guided the clipper through the matted wool along the animal's spine. As the dull, dead fur fell away in clumps, revealing patches of healthy pink skin underneath, she noticed something odd. There were faint, jagged scars crisscrossing the dog's shoulder blades—scars that didn't look like they came from barbed wire or rough terrain. They looked deliberate, surgical, or perhaps the result of an old, violent encounter.
May you like
Working methodically, Clara moved down toward the dog's ribcage. The heavy clippers hummed steadily in the quiet room. She brushed away a thick clump of mud near the animal's left flank, exposing a patch of skin that had been hastily shaved some weeks prior. Right in the center of that shaved patch was a small, neat row of black ink numbers, tattooed directly into the animal's skin.
Clara froze. Her hand hovered over the clippers, the metal tool still vibrating against her palm. She leaned in closer, squinting through the dim light of the salon. The numbers were faded, but legible. They weren't standard kennel tags or rescue markings. They looked like something belonging to a high-security institutional registry. Her heart gave a sudden, hard thud against her ribs. She looked up slowly, casting her gaze toward the rain-streaked glass door, wondering what kind of nightmare Arthur Vance had just dropped into her lap.
