Staring down at the murderous puppy, Shaw wrestled with his options. One option was to kill the dog. Normally, Shaw was a pacifist—well, in theory. It was hard to be a pacifist and a private investigator. And, an important consideration was the fact that the puppy had drawn first blood. He had started this whole thing. It wasn’t Shaw’s fault if he finished it.

But the flaw in that course of action was that North loved the little dog. North would never admit it, but he did. He carried him around the office. He bought him toys. He mashed up disgusting things on the stove and baked treats. North, whose cooking repertoire consisted of Marie Callender and Chef Boyardee, baked treats.

Shaw sighed. No. He couldn’t kill the little monster.

Another option was to lock him up and wait for this nightmare to end. But this plan, too, was flawed. Because North would know. The little dog would scratch. Or he would whine. And somehow, North would know, and he’d be mad. At Shaw. Which was so insanely unreasonable that Shaw wanted to scream.

A third option was to run away. But North would figure that out too.

The fourth option, and the one Shaw liked least, was what Pari said. Stick to the routine. Keep the savage little brute pacified. And, if possible, win some brownie points with his oh-so-hard-to-impress boyfriend.

“All right,” Shaw said to the puppy. “Do we have a deal?”

The puppy gave a whiny little breath and kicked out again in his dream.

Shaw turned over the coupon, disappointed to see that, in another cosmic injustice, none of his blood had gotten onto the construction paper. North’s scrawling script ran across the back of the coupon.

1. 30 min. walk before dinner. HE NEEDS THE LEASH, SHAW.

2. Dinner: one scoop kibble—OVERFLOWING, DON’T SKIMP

Shaw snorted at the warning.

3. Potty break.

4. Quiet time on the couch. You may watch one episode of Gilmore Girls without me.

Shaw felt a little thrill before he reminded himself that he didn’t need North’s permission.

5. Potty break again. Yes, Shaw. Again. Every hour.

Shaw snorted again and glanced at the dog. “I can hold it longer than an hour.”

6. If I’m not home by 9, help him get into his crate. DON’T FORCE HIM

That last bit was the funny part, Shaw thought. As if Shaw could force the slavering beast to do anything.

“Fine,” Shaw said. “A walk.”

The puppy gave a soft, sleeping sigh.

“Come on.”

The puppy did a tiny, puppy-size stretch, but he didn’t open his eyes.

Grimacing, Shaw reached out and gently ran his hand down the puppy’s back. The puppy pulled in a deep breath, his eyes opened, and he yawned. A puppy-size yawn.

It was adorable.

“That is not adorable,” Shaw said.