So my thoughts went to what was in front of me. The narrow warehouse space was ample for the dogs here—and ample enough to demonstrate that an apartment would be a terrible fit, no pun intended, for an animal used to productive activity. Some kept playing, a few came to check us out, and a few hung out, content where they were. But they all reminded me of kids let out of class for recess.
These dogs needed a whole lot more.
More than a handler or a partner. They needed a home. A family. I’d had partners and colleagues. I had Sophie and now the Sloans. But it wasn’t quite the same thing as the safe landing spot of someone who could welcome you into their arms and vice versa.
I was a long way from retiring, and I hoped that it wouldn’t be forced on me by some circumstance. But when I looked at these hardworking dogs enjoying their downtime, I understood where their joy came from. It wasn’t just because they were off duty, or off the leash, or free to roam. It was because they weren’t alone.
For so long, the Sloan case had dominated my waking hours, been my constant companion. When it wrapped, my off-duty hours seemed lonely. My condo felt vacant. But then there was Mindy, making inroads into my downtime and sliding into my thoughts.
In the past year, I’d realized that work occupied space but didn’t fill up a life.
It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that a romance with Mindy would be incredible. But the next big case would come along and push out everything else. I’d been there before. I didn’t want Mindy to get frustrated and resentful and storm out of my life completely, didn’t want her to think I didn’t care about her.
But could I play it safe and stay alone forever? Maybe Sophie was right that it was time to take a chance.
I had to think about what mattered most later.
At the moment, it was time to focus on one particular mission: saving Sophie and Ryan from themselves.
Because they were both telling Randall they wanted to take home Ajax the beagle, Radar the Malinois, and Holmes the shepherd.
“Just one, guys,” I said, stepping in. “Just one.”
6
Mindy
I stared at Jensen, my boss, such that he was.
Emphasis on “was.”
He’d already turned to face his computer, clicking fast, like he was ticking boxes on a form inquiring about his hobbies:
✔️ Be an entitled asshole at the breakfast buffet.
✔️ Misappropriate security cameras to scope out attractive women losing money and feeling vulnerable.
✔️ Ruin someone’s life.
“You’re firing me?” He hadn’t been ambiguous about it, but I still needed to make sure this wasn’t a nightmare.
“No,” said Jensen, with a bark and an eye roll. “As a contractor, you were never technically hired. Ergo, you can’t be fired.”
What kind of douchebag says “ergo” when they’re giving someone the ax?
All right, that shouldn’t have been a surprise. If asked that question ten minutes ago, I would have pointed at Jensen for my answer. That kind of douchebag.
But the firing—excuse me, the termination of my contract—came out of the blue. Sure, things had been stressful lately, with bad hours and unreasonable demands, but I’d just thought that was Jensen being Jensen.
“But . . . I left the Wynn for this position.” I sounded stunned, which I was, and defeated, which I was not. Even if he was a douche, I didn’t want to lose a job that I mostly loved. I sat up straight, ready to make my case. “The Jade came to me. Management promised me matching funds and a 401K.”
A careless shrug came my way, then a dismissive “Sorry, sweetheart. The old management recruited you. The new ownership has decided it’s time to bring in its own people.”
“So you’re going too?” Was I mean enough to find satisfaction in that?
I remembered how he’d called me “sweetheart” and “babe” and “honey” whenever he could get away with it, and I decided that yes, I was that mean.
Jensen spun his chair around and grabbed some paper from the printer, tapped it on the desk, and stapled it. “Nope. Because my contract specifies the penalty they’d have to pay to terminate it early. Always read the fine print, doll face.” He handed the packet over the desk with a sharky smile I wanted to punch off his face. “Now, take that to HR, and don’t forget that your nondisclosure remains in effect, so no talking about the buyout to anyone. Just tell your friends you’re taking some ‘me time’ or whatever you girls do.” He waved a hand as if he were talking about periods, and it was just too much.
I snatched the papers from him, and he yelped.
Oops. My bad. Not.
Collateral damage? His paper cut.
He sucked his cut finger as I suppressed a smile.
“Is that all?” I asked coldly.
“Yeah. Don’t forget to leave your keys after you clean out your office.” He picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk. “Nothing personal, sweet cheeks. Come back and visit the Jade any time, and please keep us in mind if you have guests coming to town or need to host an event.”
“Nothing personal, Jensen,” I said, opening the door to let myself out, “but I hope you get lemon juice in your paper cut.” Then I stopped, stared at him, and said, “Also, don’t call me ‘doll face,’ ‘sweet cheeks,’ ‘honey,’ or ‘babe’ ever again.”
I only needed a handful of minutes to grab the pictures of my nieces and nephew from my desk and make sure I hadn’t left anything in the drawers. I’d never kept much in there but a few protein bars and some emergency tampons. My job hadn’t been to sit at a desk. It was to put out fires—usually figurative—or to prevent them by keeping my eyes and ears open and staying one step ahead. How sad to have been blindsided by my own firing.
I’d never been fired.
What was I supposed to do? What did this mean? And was it somehow my fault?
Grabbing my phone, I dialed Lynette, my oldest sister. Between her and my brother-in-law, one of them must have lost a job abruptly. I needed someone to walk me through this, or maybe simply to tell me I wasn’t a loser.
Lynette answered on the third ring in a whispering hiss. “Mindy! You called.”
That was a strangely obvious observation. “Where are you?”
“PTA meeting,” she whispered. “Are you okay?”
Ohhh. Now I understood her surprise and worry. Lynette’s twins were preteens, and nothing short of the apocalypse rated more than a text.
“Yes,” I assured her. “Well, nothing that involves stitches or X-rays.”
“I’m so glad. Can I call you back later?”
“Sure. I don’t want you to get in deep with the PTA.”
“You probably have mafia dons in Las Vegas who I’d rather piss off more than the PTA. Talk to you later.”
I smiled. I’d stake one of those gluten-free granola-eating soccer moms against any mafioso godfather.
But allowing for the time-zone difference and her kids’ schedules, I didn’t hold out on her calling back tonight. If I had asked, she would have stepped out of the meeting or told the boys to eat cereal for dinner while she talked to Aunt Mindy. But why throw everyone out of whack? Presumably, I’d still be unemployed tomorrow.