Golden Burn (Songs of Crime #1)

1. Etta

1

Etta

‘Rainbow’ - Kacey Musgraves

“ S o, what brings SpongeBob to the clinic today?” I ask, eyeing SpongeBob, the nasty Pomeranian, with a lethal focus. He’s been known to bite. I’ve always been quick to avoid it. Today will not be a day that he succeeds in jumping me.

Betty, his owner, a woman in her late sixties with wispy white hair and purple framed glasses, places her hand on her chest and sighs. “He’s not eating. He’s just been sleeping all hours of the day. Even Patrick can’t entice him to play.” Patrick, the young Cavoodle, barks when he hears his name. I pat him on the head and remove the stethoscope from around my neck. Betty keeps speaking as I tentatively hold SpongeBob and place the rounded metal piece against his tiny lungs. “He doesn’t want any of my leftover bacon after breakfast. He practically gags when I place any food in front of him. And he wet the bed twice last night. ”

SpongeBob’s beady black eyes widen as I lean in close. His lips curl slightly as I remove the stethoscope and begin to gently feel around his stomach for any abnormalities. He growls when I near his back legs.

“See! He would have at least barked and tried to bite by now. He’s… he’s…” Shoulders slumped, Betty begins to cry. He’s nineteen years old, I want to say. It’s an absolute miracle he’s still standing. His eyes are crusty and practically blind, his back legs are locked from arthritis, and he’s showing signs of kidney failure.

“Betty, I can do some tests, give him some pain medication, but if I’m honest, I think it might be time to—”

“No! I can’t!” Betty’s chest heaves with sobs.

I hate this part of my job. It sucks so badly. I’d rather punch myself in the face every morning than have to dish out this kind of news. Unfortunately, it’s part and parcel of being a veterinarian.

I have two options now as Betty whimpers and SpongeBob stares me down as if he’d drag me with him to hell if he’s forced to go early. One; administer more medication, let Betty take her beloved pet home, despite the surety that he won’t last a couple more days. Or two; push for him to be euthanized here in the clinic with lots of support from myself and my staff.

I open my mouth with the intention of going ahead with option two—no matter how hard it will be for Betty—when I hear the bell on the front desk start ringing.

Shit.

He’s early.

Thankfully, most of my staff aren’t here. I don’t have to be nearly as discreet as I normally do. The other vet employed is on a well-deserved holiday with his wife and kids in Bali, and the receptionist called in sick today with the flu. There’s one vet nurse checking on all the animals recovering out the back, but I sent her on her break before this appointment. She won’t be returning for an hour or so.

I was able to keep the appointments today to a minimum, and no emergencies decided to throw my schedule out of whack. The only important appointment is the one I have booked after Betty.

I give SpongeBob a loving pat, and for the first time ever, he seems to accept it without bristling. Like he knows he might only get a few more. My heart fractures as I pick him up and place him in Betty’s arms. While she clings to him, I kneel down and pat Patrick, too, who’s been such a worried boy this entire time.

“I know this is not what you want to hear,” I say softly, “but I think SpongeBob is ready to go. His body can’t support him anymore, and it would be best if he went peacefully rather than in pain.”

Betty’s chin wobbles, her eyes fill with fresh tears. “I don’t know if I can do it,” she whispers.

“Ultimately, the decision is yours.” I smile gently, keeping my expression as compassionate as I can. “Why don’t you give it some time to think over? Go home, talk to your family, and call me in the morning.”

She sniffs. “That sounds like a good idea.”

I feed a handful of treats to Patrick while Betty gets her things in order. She clips the boys into their joint harness and exits the consultation room, her gait slow and dejected. The aggressive urge to shove my face full of the mint chocolate waiting in the break room only intensifies.

As I follow Betty down the pale green hallway, the reception bell rings again. Strange. He’s only supposed to ring it once and wait.

My shoes squeak as I walk, only adding to the nerves stirring low in my belly. I bought them last week, and the newness of them contrasts with my faded blue scrubs stained dark under the armpits from so many hours working without having a second to put on some extra deodorant. My hands busy themselves by fixing the stray pieces of hair that have come out of the clips, tugging my teeny tiny ponytail tighter. Cutting my hair in the shower on a desperate whim two nights ago will forever haunt me. I don’t know how I ever thought making it so short would help stabilize my current unstable life. In the moment, it had felt therapeutic, and for the few hours afterward, when my hair felt fresh and soft and buoyant, I imagined myself happy and content. Peaceful, even.

Now, not so much.

I’m always on edge on the second Monday of the month. I’ve only done a handful of deliveries thus far, but each one is just as stressful as the last. They told me it would get easier. They said I would forget about getting caught because it was almost impossible to get caught—Not if I was careful and did as they said.

Either way, they were lying. Trying to keep a failing vet practice afloat has ruined my cortisol levels. Trying to fix the mess illegally is sending them through the fucking roof.

I round the final corner and slow my steps when I see a man standing in front of the glass doors, the rain steadily beating against the pavement and casting the space in a gray, dreary tone.

A gorgeous golden retriever sits at his side, tail wagging, the rest of her body still. She seems well trained, not moving despite seeing two strangers. Her big black eyes shift around and her tongue hangs out of her mouth, indicating she feels safe.

I’m momentarily struck by the intensity of her owner. Maybe it’s his size—he has to be somewhere around six-foot-three—or that he’s wearing a long coat, black as coal, seeming like he stepped out of a Matrix movie. Or maybe it’s because I’m staring at his shoulders, his gaze hidden from me. I’m intrigued, almost immediately. It’s both dizzying and worrying.

This is not who I’m supposed to meet. Which makes me all the more panicked. They never mentioned there would be a swap. They never said anything about a retriever. It’s supposed to be a chihuahua with serious anxiety.

Where is he? And how do I get rid of this guy quickly?

“Thank you so much, Dr. Lewis,” Betty says as she stands before the reception desk with her credit card ready.

Woah. When did she get there?

I shake my head as I make my way over to her. “No need, Betty. We can fix it up tomorrow.”

She reaches for one of my hands and squeezes my fingers tightly. “Thank you, dear. You are a precious angel. Your mother would be so proud of how you have continued her legacy.”

Despair expands in my chest like a firework. A year ago, I would have taken the compliment. Now it just makes my stomach churn.

Betty waves goodbye as she exits through the glass doors. My gut tells me SpongeBob will last a couple more days, maybe weeks. But I secretly hope he passes in his sleep. Betty won’t have to make any decisions regarding his life, and she’ll be comforted to know he left this earth in his favorite place: by her bedside.

A sigh pours from my chest, taking with it a little of my sadness. Despite the nature of the job, death is a constant presence, and it always finds a way to affect me, big and small.

It files away along with every other sad thing I’ve witnessed, and I transition with rusty wheels onto the next issue. Wiping my sweaty hands on my uniform, I lift my head in the direction of the man still waiting in the corner.

He’s turned to face me, and goddamnit, he’s even more attractive than I could have conjured. He’s got a slight layer of stubble spread across a strong jaw. A wave of thick hair on his crown, shaved thin on the sides—ashy brown with lighter streaks that blend nicely with his creamy complexion. Broad shoulders, athletic build and a killer sense of style.

Rich and handsome. Nice.

Unfortunately, I can’t deduce his eye color because of the sunglasses fixed to his face. Though, why he’s wearing them inside on a rainy day beats me.

Maybe they’re prescriptions?

I squash the teenage butterflies springing to life in my stomach and refocus. I have to get rid of him quickly before the vet nurse returns from her break and wonders why I’m handing over a car trunk’s worth of drugs to a man with a tiny chihuahua.

“My name is Dr. Lewis. How may I help you?” I look down at the golden retriever. “More specifically, how can I help her?”

“She’s not mine,” he says. It’s difficult not to be affected by the honeyed timbre of his voice. But I manage easily enough. Maybe I am an angel, after all.

“Oh, did you find her?”

“You could say that.”

Okay. Not really the answer I was looking for. But being aloof seems to fit his mysterious criteria.

I come out from behind the reception desk and make my way over to the dog. I’m glad this wasn’t any kind of emergency. Lost dogs are an easy fix. “Well, thank you for doing the right thing and bringing her to a vet. I can take it from here. I’ll take her out the back and check for any injuries, plus I can find her owner if she has a tag.”

The man pulls away as I reach for her lead. “I’d like to wait.”

My brows furrow. “Excuse me? ”

“I’d like to wait.” I continue to stare at him. “I’d like to speak to the owner,” he clarifies.

“I can take a message. I’m sure you have other things to attend to.”

“I don’t.” He looks at me, or at least, I think he does, and I suddenly feel small. Minuscule. Like a speck of sand on a highway.

My gaze flicks to the clock on the wall behind him. “Are you sure?” I ask again . I really, really need you to leave.

“Deadly.” The way he says that one word raises the tiny hairs along my arms.

I straighten. “That’s fine. Can I look her over while we wait?”

“Please do.” He hands me the reins and the beautiful dog comes to me. “Her name is Juniper.”

I nod stiffly and guide Juniper down the hallway and through the door that leads to the treatment room. Inside, I check my burner phone and see there’s no message. No warning, no indication he should be late or swapped with another person. Shit, shit, shit.

I give Juniper some treats and soothe her as I check her legs, her hips, her paws, her eyes and mouth. She’s healthy and well. Still, a strange sense of dread uncoils low in my stomach. There’s something off about this.

The troubling sensation only worsens when I realize there’s no way that guy could know anything about her besides her breed.

By the time I’ve finished checking Juniper over, I have two burning questions.

How did he know her name when she has no collar and no internal tag? And why does he want to speak to her owner so badly?

I exit the consultation room with a sick feeling in my stomach.

The sound of claws clicking on the sticky linoleum floor signals my return. I laugh nervously as Juniper jumps up onto my chest and starts to lick my throat. “So, I actually couldn’t find any information about Juniper’s owner. Did you happen to know what street you found her on? I can post a picture of her on a local Facebook group, and maybe they could—”

“No need. The owner is on his way.” The man clicks his fingers in Juniper’s direction and the dog complies, trotting over to his side and sitting at his feet. She’s incredibly well trained to respond to someone she’s only just met.

I can’t keep the concern from my face, my brows creasing in an obvious frown. “How did you get in contact with them?”

He twists the watch on his wrist before checking a message on his phone. He slips it away without replying as he answers, “Oh, we’ve known each other for a long time.” He offers a stiff smirk in my direction. Then his face becomes devoid of emotion. Unmovable.

The rain softens outside the clinic, the sun blinking into existence for a fraction of a second. The hairs on my arm rise up.

I want to ask him more questions, but time is ticking, and my patience is cracking.

Footsteps echo outside the door. Someone is storming toward the clinic.

“Ah, here he is.” The handsome stranger adjusts his stance, spreads his feet, and folds his hands across his abdomen.

What the hell?

“I’d brace yourself if I were you.”