Mason bid the motel owner good night. Retreated to his room, unlocked the door, switched on the light. Half expected to see Kirby Harwood waiting in the dark for him, and when the deputy wasn’t there, Mason wondered if Harwood’s presence would have unnerved him any more than the emptiness he found instead.

Fifteen years in a cell. Three squares a day. Lights on, lights off. Doors open, doors closed. Fifteen years with no agency, no privacy, no personal space. He’d grown used to the structure, made his peace with his relative powerlessness. He’d matured in that prison cell, accustomed himself to the strange rituals on the inside, the hierarchies, rules written and unwritten. Fifteen years, nearly half of his life so far. He’d never been comfortable inside the prison, but at least he’d known what to expect.

And now, on the outside, Mason felt the vastness of possibility like a heavy stone on his chest. There was no one to tell him what to do, a thousand paths to walk and no clear way to choose. He felt rootless, adrift, drowning in his freedom, surrounded by a population of normal, law-abiding people who all knew the roles, the social mores, who could look a person in the eye without feeling they were revealing their monstrous selves.

Shit.

He’d landed here, in this motel room at the end of the world, utterly on his own. He would wake up on his own, bathe on his own. He would choose what to eat, and where, and when. And he knew this was an incredible luxury, something he’d dreamed about over countless nights inside the Chippewa pen. He’d imagined eating at nice restaurants, going for long drives. Hell, meeting a woman, making actual friends. It had all seemed so simple when he was still inside. Now, on the outside, Mason Burke had no idea what he was doing.

He needed structure. Mason knew, somewhere in his subconscious, that coming to Deception Cove in search of a dog wasn’t the sanest idea in the world. He knew it wouldn’t make sense to most anyone who knew what he was doing. The dog was just a dog, after all. And from the sound of it, the dog was mixed up in something a lot bigger than Mason had anticipated. He knew the sane answer was to turn around and go home.

And do what? Where was home, exactly? What did he have in this world to look forward to? Where would he start? Cleaning houses?

“Greater love has no one than this,” the Bible said, “that someone lay down his life for his friends.”

The dog needed help. Mason needed a purpose. He undressed for bed and slipped beneath the sheets. He’d be sticking around for a while.

Nine

Nine

Mason had only ever seen the dog riled up one time.