Page 18 of One Last Stand
The silence jammed inside her, however, along with the slow tightening of her gut.
She got up, retrieved the bag of dog food and the shopping bags, then opened the food and filled one of the new bowls with breakfast, another with water. The dog wolfed it down as she went upstairs just to make sure Shep wasn’t . . .what—dead on his bathroom floor?
Maybe, because she took a deep breath as she opened the door, and blew it out when she found the room empty.
She returned to his bedroom and stopped at the picture on his bedside. He must have pulled it from his phone, because it seemed like a selfie—her and Shep last year, skiing one of the big bowls of Alyeska, grinning into the camera.
Not a hint of trouble, of fear, of foreboding in her smile.
The doorbell rang.
She jerked, then headed to the upstairs window and peered out. A dark-haired woman stood on the stoop, wearing Ugg slippers and a flannel overshirt, her head bare, hands in her pockets.
Probablynotan assassin. Still, London debated, then headed downstairs to open the door. Because her car sat in the driveway, and if she didn’t answer, maybe that would lead to more doorbell ringing and maybe even an uptick in concern. Could end with police on the doorstep—and maybe that was her worst-case-scenario tendency kicking in, but it had kept her alive for five years, so . . .
She opened the door. The woman had turned away, staring out into the day, and now whirled around. Petite, with Filipino features and a warm smile that dimmed a little and turned into a frown as she stared at London. “Oh, hi. Um, is Shep here?”
And London didn’t know why the sight of her put a prick in her side. “No.”
“Oh. Okay, um—I’m his neighbor—” She pointed to the townhome next door, deck side. “I noticed a dog on his deck and wanted to come over and see if he was okay.”
“The dog, or Shep?”
She frowned. “Shep. Because I’ve lived here for six months, and I don’t remember him having a dog, but . . . anyway, I’m Jasmine.” She held out her hand. “And you’re the girlfriend.”
London’s eyes widened. “What?”
“I’ve seen you here a few times—although I thought you had an orange Subaru.”
“It was . . . in an accident.” But,really?Who knew their neighbor that well?
“Our decks face each other, and a few times we shared conversation while we drank coffee. He never called you his girlfriend, but . . . you’re on his rescue team, right?” She gave a wry smile. “He has a photo of the team in his great room.”
Right.A team shot taken by Moose a year ago after a callout. One that she’d made him promise not to put on the website.
“Okay, well, I just wanted to see if Shep was okay. He’s such a nice guy—fixed my faucet once when it leaked. Oh, good, you brought the dog in.”
She leaned in. The dog had gotten up, walked across the room. Jasmine edged toward him, and what was London supposed to do? Hip-check her out the door, shut it, and run?
“Would you like to come in?” But the question was moot because Jasmine was already inside and crouching in front of the dog.
“Oh, what a sweet dog. What’s his name?”
Oh, um . . . “Lewie.”
“Hey, Lewie,” Jasmine said, and the dog’s tail wagged, and he lay down, letting her pet him. So, not a watchdog.
“You’re not in the reality show.”
Right. That stupid show. Thankfully, Moose had kept his word and forbidden the producers from broadcasting her picture across the universe.
“They cut out all my scenes. It was really about Oaken Fox anyway.”
Jasmine stood up. “Have you been on the team long?”
“Just a year.”
Jasmine frowned. “For some reason I thought Shep said you were old friends.”