“Good night.” Remembering when his sister had been assaulted in a parking garage years ago, Conor glanced in his rearview mirror. Standing on the sidewalk, digging something out of her purse, Zoe looked so young and vulnerable. Damn it. He jumped out of the car and ran around the back end. “Wait.” He tapped her shoulder.

She whirled, jumping backward, her eyes wide in alarm. She pressed a hand to her chest. “God, you scared me.”

“I’m sorry. Are you sure I can’t get you a cab?”

“No, you’ve done enough.” She backed up a step.

He dug a business card out of his wallet. “Do me a favor? Give me a quick call when you get home.”

She took the card. “Sure. Thanks again.”

A horn blared. His car was blocking a cab. The driver leaned over the passenger seat and gestured between Conor and the Porsche with irritation.

“Be careful.” He returned to his car and pulled out into the street.

And that was that.

He drove back to the bar and found a parking spot down the block. The guy in the hoodie was gone when Conor circled the bar and went into the alley. At the base of his apartment steps, a faint whimper carried over the sound of traffic on Oregon Avenue. He turned his head and listened. Another thin whine emanated from the darkness under the stairwell. Crouching, he squinted into the shadows.

A dog cringed in the space between the brick building and the wooden stairs. Plenty of strays roamed the city streets, but something about this animal’s posture was off. He ran upstairs for a flashlight and a couple slices of cheese. Back outside, he shined the light into the dark crevice. It was a pit bull or a pit mix, blue-gray in color, and injured.

“You hungry?” Conor squatted and tossed a piece of cheese a few feet in front of the dog. The dog shuffled forward, sniffing the air, body tense and postured for flight as it licked at the aged provolone.

Numerous old scars, fresh cuts, and oozing abrasions crisscrossed the dog’s skin, mostly around its head and face. A meaty collar encircled the neck, and a short piece of heavy chain hung from it, all signs that the pit bull could be from a dog-fighting operation—and a bad one at that. The poor beast was razor thin. Pit bulls were naturally muscular dogs, but this one’s skin was stretched taut over visible sinew and bone. How the hell could a skinny dog fight? Not that this one looked like much of a fighter. There wasn’t anything aggressive about its posture.

Raindrops splattered on the asphalt. Thunder crashed, and a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky. The dog flinched, cringing toward the stairwell.