“I’ll talk to the bank. Fix the little problem I hear your mother’s having with the mortgage.” He shifts in the light of the Tahoe, shadow puppets on the wall dancing behind her. Every time he moves, the lights hit her eyes, make her squint. “Hell, maybe I’ll even get them to lower her rate a little bit—might be a little wiggle room there.”

“For the dog.”

“For the dog.”

Temptation dangles above her head, tantalizing as a bunch of ripe red grapes. All she has to do is shake the devil’s hand and send Whitey on his way. Probably to train. And to fight. And maybe to die. She’s not sure if Orly just wants to exert some grudge against the Mountain Man or if he really wants to see this dog in the ring. She’s not sure if that even matters. The fight is the fight no matter why it takes place.

She looks down at Whitey. He doesn’t take his eyes off Orly.

So easy. So easy to just give in, let the dog go. Watch her problems—or at least one problem—melt away. She’s got no loyalty to dogs. Doesn’t even like them much.

But this dog . . .

This dog saved her life.

Putting him back there? Giving him to the man who may be behind Chris’s murder?

Aw, crap.

“It’s up to him,” she says. “Whitey, you wanna go with the man in the fancy white car? Go and be a big bad dogfighter? You can go if you want.”

But Whitey doesn’t budge. Of course he doesn’t.

She shrugs. “Guess he’s not interested.”

“You’re making a mistake. I’m handing you the keys to your cage.”

“You come back here again, I’ll be handin’ you your balls in a cereal bowl.”

Orly nods, resigned to it. He heads back to the Tahoe, throws open the door. Before he steps up into the full-size, he calls out over the top of the door, “You better watch out, Atlanta. If you burn everything down around you, don’t forget that people you love will get burned, too.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Erickson?”

“Well, Miss Burns, you take it to mean however you—”

She shoots one of the Tahoe’s headlights. Orly cries out, hurries into the car, and throws it in reverse. The SUV wibble-wobbles backward, bounding in and out of the shallow ditch along the driveway, then back up the driveway until it’s gone.

Atlanta lets out a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding in.

She hunkers down and hugs Whitey.

“I think I just screwed up,” she tells the dog.

The smelly beast licks her ear. Sandpaper and slobber.

“That dog’s still freaking me out,” Shane says, staying about fifteen feet away from Whitey at all times. He rubs his hands all nervous-like. “Are you sure you’re keeping him?”