“The dog belongs to my family.”
Janine didn’t hesitate.
“No,” she said. “Walter belonged to your family. Bo belonged to Walter.”
The distinction hit harder than anyone expected.
Because it was true.
You could see it in the photograph.
In the worn wallet.
In the way Bo had spent an entire day guarding the last things Walter had touched.
The man stepped closer.
“Give me the dog.”
Bo immediately lowered his head and moved behind my leg.
Not aggressively.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Enough to answer for himself.
The man saw it.
And something ugly crossed his face.
Something that looked less like grief and more like resentment.
“You always liked the damn dog more than me,” he muttered.
Janine went silent.
I frowned.
“What?”
The man laughed bitterly.
Not at me.
At himself.
At a memory.
