Made to Be Broken (Nadia Stafford 2)

"What's that?"

He shrugged. The box looked like some kind of fencing. Why would we need...?

"Oh, no," I said. "You didn't. Tell me you didn't."

He slowed. "Want me to take her back?"

I hurried over to the truck. In the back, a pet carrier started quivering, a black nose pressing against the wire.

"I can take her back," Jack called.

I hopped into the bed, crouched beside the carrier and opened it. A white ball of fur torpedoed out, toppling me backward. The puppy lapped at my face, paws digging into my chest as she balanced on top of me. Jack glanced over the side of the truck. I turned a reproachful look on him.

"I said I can take her back."

I lifted the puppy off me and knelt, petting her. She was about the size of a terrier already, with huge batlike ears and massive paws that promised she'd grow into those ears soon enough.

"What is she?" I asked.

"German shepherd."

"Ha-ha."

"She is. White one. Thought that'd be good out here. Help people see you on the road. Easy to see her in the fields."

"And when those fields are covered in fluffy white snow?"

"Huh. Never thought of that."

I shook my head as I rubbed her ears. "I don't need a dog, Jack."

"But you want one."

"Nadia?" Emma called before I could answer him. She leaned over the porch rail, holding the phone. "It's your Aunt Evie."

"Fuck," Jack muttered. "Said a week. Waits exactly that. To the hour, I bet."

I motioned to Emma that I'd be there in a moment, and handed the dog over the side to Jack.

"Tell John to bring the puppy over," Emma called. "Owen wants to see it."

"And she doesn't," I murmured.

"Haven't decided, have you?"

"Not yet. I guess I'd better think fast."

As I climbed out of the truck bed, I looked around. At the lodge, the bright midday sun cresting over the roof. Towels flapped in the wind, hung to dry before guests arrived. The smell of soup and freshly baked bread wafted from the open windows. Emma laughed at something Owen said as he refilled the bird feeders, sneaking glances at the dog. I glanced at Jack, the puppy playing tug-of-war with his sleeve.

I looked around and had the overwhelming urge to say "good enough." This was good. This was right. This was me.

Stick with this. Sneak out a couple of times a year for the Tomassinis, and if it doesn't scratch the itch, just say "good enough."

Don't go deeper. Don't even look deeper. Tell Evelyn no.

And if I did that, did I secure my world? Keep it all sunshine and puppies? Or only make the darkness burrow deeper, fester deeper.

I took a deep breath, filling my lungs until they stung, then slowly let it out.