Innocent Prey. Maggie Shayne

there was no hope of ever getting her sight back. She’s not dealing with it very well.”

      “No one deals with it very well.”

      “I just want you to come with me to where she was last seen. Walk through the moments before she vanished with me. How bad is that?”

      I heaved a sigh. “Myrtle needs her walk, you know. That evil lying vet of hers still insists she’s overweight.”

      “He has a death wish. I’m sure of it,” Mason said, and then he shrugged. “Actually, walking is exactly what we’ll be doing. We can bring her along. You’ve already got her leash.”

      “You know perfectly well she does not ride in a car without her designer goggles and matching scarf.”

      He jogged up to the road to his car, opened the door and leaned in. When he came to the edge of the road again, he held up his gift. “Doggy goggles.”

      They were hot pink with black peace signs all over them. I almost loved them. “Did you get those on the way over?” It took some doing, but I convinced Myrt to come back up the slope away from the water. Mason handed the goggles to me. Even the lenses were tinted pink. “And if so, where? ’Cause damn.”

      “Great, aren’t they? Josh bought them for her on eBay. Used his own money, too. He put ’em in my car yesterday, but I forgot to give them to you.”

      “They’re great.” I looked at him, at the goggles, at the car. I didn’t want to get involved in any sort of police work or investigation. And my reason was simple. So far, every time I had, I’d had brutally horrifying dreams about whatever was going on. Vivid, awful nightmares that were mostly true. Now, granted, I’d had weird connections to the killer and/or the victims the other times, due to our common organ donor. There was no reason to think that would continue with a case that had nothing to do with me or my corneas.

      Except that I’d had some kind of freaky knowledge happening last Thanksgiving when my right-hand Goth, Amy, had been kidnapped. No nightmares. Just that...

      Extra sense.

      Not that. It’s not that. I’m not fucking psychic.

      “Come on. All I want to do is take you two for a short walk near Otsiningo Park. How bad can that be?”

      We both knew how bad it could be, so I wasn’t going to bother answering that one. I crouched down in front of my bulldog. “Myrt. You wanna go for a ride in the car?”

      She cocked her head to one side, ears perking up, lower teeth coming out above her upper lip as she stared up at me, waiting for me to repeat her favorite words ever spoken, to confirm she had heard me correctly.

      “Ride? In the car?” I said again.

      “Snarf!” And the butt-wiggle dance began.

      I looked up at Mason and shrugged. “There’s your answer. I guess we’re going.” I adjusted the goggle straps and put them on my dog, told her how gorgeous she was, and promised to find her a matching scarf soon. She followed me to Mason’s car. I got in the front seat and slid to the middle, where newer cars would have a console instead of a supersized bench seat. I was lucky the old—sorry, classic—car even had seat belts. Mason lifted Myrtle to set her on the passenger side, so she could stick her head out the window. He knew the deal.

      He came around and got behind the wheel, then looked at me for a second. “Need to go lock up?”

      “Amy’s there. I’ll give her a call.”

      He nodded but didn’t put the car into motion, and he was still looking at me. So I braved the question. “What? What’s wrong?”

      “I, uh... You were a little pissed at me last night. Are we good?”

      I blinked. He was checking in on the thing we both hated discussing most. Mucky, murky emotional vomit. The kind of stuff that ruined great relationships. “I’m good,” I said. “You?”

      “Mostly, yeah. Pretty good.”

      Which meant he could be better. Which was what I’d have said if I’d been honest. But because I was a big fat chicken, I said, “Good, then. We’re good.”

      “We’re good. Okay.”

      And then he turned the car around, and we were off and running. And I thought to myself that it wouldn’t be so bad to help him out with another case. It really wouldn’t. At least I’d get to spend some time with him in the upright and unlocked position.

      This could be fun.

      Right. Fun. Like, you know, jury duty. Or a smallpox outbreak. Or seeing murders in your sleep. Fun.

       2

      By 2:00 p.m. Mason and Myrtle and I were walking the sidewalk Stevie Mattheson had walked just before she’d vanished, which, I’d learned, had happened the day before yesterday. Apparently her devoted daddy had waited a day and a half before going to his pal the chief to not report her missing. Guy was a jerk.

      I know, snap judgment. That’s how I roll. Tough times turn people’s masks into windows. Believe what they show you. Yeah, it’s one of mine.

      “Nice leash, by the way,” Mason said.

      Hot pink, with black skulls and crossbones all over it. “And coincidentally it even matches the new goggles you bought her.”

      “Except I went with peace signs instead of the Jolly Roger.”

      “Yeah, I noticed,” I said.

      “Hope she doesn’t get confused about her own identity.”

      “What’s to be confused about? She’s a pacifist pirate.”

      He laughed. That was what I was going for, eliciting that laugh. I could tell more from Mason’s laugh than from anything he said or any vibe he emitted. He was too much a cop, played things too close to the vest, to let me read him the way I did other people. But I could still read him. It was just tougher. And his laugh was the easiest way I’d found so far.

      This one rang forced and tight.

      “You’re worried about this.”

      He nodded. “Something’s off about the whole thing.”

      “Spidey sense tingling?”

      “I wish to hell you’d been a fly on the wall at lunch so you could tell me if you sensed it, too.”

      “Is there some reason you’re doubting your eerily accurate cop instincts, Mason?”

      He looked at me, then at the sidewalk. “Yeah. A couple of them.” He didn’t elaborate, so I didn’t push it, figuring it was either something deep and emotional or something about us, and those topics were things we’d sort of agreed to avoid without really ever saying so out loud. He was no more into gooey emotional gunk than I was, thank goodness.

      It was beautiful outside. Warm in that springlike way that would seem chilly a month from now, but sunny and fresh. I’d always loved that about spring, that freshly washed newborn feeling it had to it. But I loved seeing it even more. The trees were taking on a pale green cast as their buds started to become leaves. Birds were flitting around singing like extras in a Disney flick. Tulips and daffodils everywhere you looked. And the apple blossoms were busting out all over. Out in the Point they were barely peeking out of their buds.

      Myrtle hurried from one spot to the next, sniffing everything thoroughly, excited by a new place and not even keeping her side pressed to my leg. She really was getting more confident. I loved that.

      “So she walked from this bench to that corner,” Mason said. “Bitching all the way, according to her coach.”

      “Her blindness coach. The person her father hired to teach her how to be blind.”