Take a sad song and make it better.

Chapter Six

As the sun rises on the seventh day and a full week has passed us by, we are no closer to freedom. We are no closer to finding a way out of this barbarous basement and going home.

Home.

Sometimes I forget what it looks like.

I try to picture my lavender bedroom walls, bay window, and the vintage mirror that my grandmother passed down to me. It’s a quaint little house with only twelve-hundred square feet and two bedrooms, but it’s mine. I worked my ass off for it and laid my roots.

I was in the middle of researching local animal shelters to adopt a dog—it has been on my bucket list for a solid year now, but it never felt like the right time. Last Saturday was spent scrolling through furry faces and cute canine bios as I narrowed down my search to find the perfect companion. I found two contenders, though, all of them called to me with their sad eyes and heartwarming stories.

But Jasmine and Buffy were the two I was going to meet on Sunday. I printed out their photos and secured them to my refrigerator, excited for this big life change.

I got change, all right. Just not the change I ever expected.

And part of me is grateful I don’t have a pet at home waiting for me, wondering where I’ve gone, relying on me for things I cannot give.

I am the pet now.

Dean’s head is back against his pole, but his eyes are on me as I daydream about the two dogs I never got to meet. “Penny for your thoughts?”

I cut him a glance, pulling my legs up until I’m sitting Indian-style across from him. “You don’t have any pennies. Unfair trade.”

He blinks as his mouth quirks into a tiny smile. “Name your price, then.”

“You have nothing to give. My thoughts are extremely valuable, you know.”

“I’m sure they are.” Dean’s eyes are as alight as they can be given the week we’ve battled through. He dips his head to the side, pursing his lips together and considering the bargain. “All right, Corabelle. A thought for a thought.”

I raise the stakes. “How about a confession for a confession?”

An eyebrow arches with interest, his smile blooming. “This could be fun,” he winks at me. “And dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” I chew on the inside of my bottom lip, my belly doing a forgotten flippy-thing. “What kind of confessions did you have in mind? ‘I stiffed the pizza delivery guy’ or a full-on priest confessional with ten Hail Marys and the Act of Contrition?”

Dean lets out a gruff chuckle, shifting his weight until his knees are drawn up and shrugging his shoulders. “I would never stiff the pizza guy. Unforgivable.” He ponders my question as he studies me, his head still cocked. “But definitely the second one. Let’s go all Last Rites on each other.”