“Yes.” He blinks. “No! I dunno.” Suddenly he sees what she’s doing and he yelps—“Hey!”—but it’s too late. She tosses the last half of her sandwich to the dog, who catches it in his mouth and basically just dry-swallows it without chewing. Gulp. “That’s a good sandwich!”

“It is and was. He sure seemed to enjoy it.”

Shane pinches the bridge of his nose like a frustrated librarian. “You think Orly killed Chris?”

“He said it was a suicide, same as Mitchell said, same as the cops said. But then he went and threatened me. Told me that . . . basically that I was burning the house down with all my loved ones in it.” She mimics Shane and pinches her nose-bridge. It’s oddly satisfying. “I dunno. Maybe he’s right. I just keep making trouble for myself and everyone I love. Why can’t I just be a normal girl who doesn’t know what spent gunpowder smells like? Why can’t I just . . . dick around on Facebook and chase after boys and . . . I dunno, just quit stirring up the shit?”

Shane shrugs. “Why can’t I be six foot tall and built like Captain America? We are who we are.”

“Well, I don’t wanna be me, then.”

Whitey, seeing that he’s not getting another bite from Atlanta, shifts his butt sideways and scoots over closer to Shane. Shane recoils. The dog gets closer. And again starts to emit ropy, gooey drool.

“He likes you,” Atlanta says.

“He’s a monster.”

“He’s a cute monster.”

“He ate somebody’s hand.”

“Kind of. A little bit of it.”

Shane picks up a corner crust of the sandwich the same way someone might pick up a dead mouse or a dirty tampon and flings it in the general direction of the Dogo. Whitey’s head ratchets back and the jaws snap closed on the sandwich piece, making it disappear. “Can you imagine those jaws closing around your throat?” Shane asks.

“No,” Atlanta says. “But I can imagine them closing on Orly Erickson’s.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Later that day she calls Guy. Figures by now he’s done being mad at her. But his cell just rings and rings. He’s still mad. Whatever. She decides to get ahead of that problem. She gathers up Shane and Whitey and takes a walk to visit with her friendly neighborhood drug dealer.

The day is hot and the walk is long. It’s not technically summer yet, but summer’s here just the same, biting deep and breathing hot, dry breath.

Atlanta brought a bottle of water and occasionally tilts it back and lets Whitey slurp and lick at it.

Shane brought his katana, attacking anything and everything. Deadheading wildflowers. Hacking at a log. Chasing a white cabbage moth like it killed his mother and he’s out for vengeance.