The drive to his brownstone is long and quiet. Serene. He holds my hand, stares out the window.
The driver turns onto Logan’s street, and that’s when Logan looks at me, a soft smile on his face. “I don’t blame you,” he says. “I hope you understand that.”
“Well, I do. There’s no one else to blame, Logan. Aside from Caleb, that is.”
“Don’t.”
“But Logan, if it weren’t for me—”
“Stop.” It’s an order. Quiet but sharp. “I knew going in that Caleb—Jakob, whatever the fuck his name is—I knew going in that’s he’s dangerous. I knew you were tangled up with him. I knew I was taking a risk letting myself get close to you. I took that risk eyes open, so this is on me. He’s not a man whoforgives, nor does he forget, and he certainly doesn’t let go of what he considers his. So, this is on me. Okay?”
“You cannot just order me to not feel guilty and expect me to just...obey, Logan. I don’t work that way.” I shake my head. “And no, this isn’t on you, or me, really. It’s on Caleb. Heshotyou, intending to kill you. There’s no excuse for that.” I feel bile in my throat at the thought of what I did with Caleb, knowing all the while what he’d done.
“I know that. I just mean I understood the risk I was running dealing with Caleb. I’m not blaming myself, just saying, I can’t say I didn’t know.”
“That’s a meaningless distinction, Logan.”
“Is it, though?” Logan questions. “I lost my eye. I want to be—Iam—angry. I want fucking revenge, Isabel. I want to hunt that bastard down and gouge his goddamned eyes out. Now he’s not only cost me five years in prison, but my eye, and nearly my life.”
“That’s totally understandable, Logan—” I start.
But he interrupts me. “I had five years in prison to think about revenge. I had almost a week on my back in the hospital to think about it again. Where is revenge going to get me? I hunt him down and kill him, or whatever. What does that make me? I’ve seen enough death in my life. Don’t forget, I’m a combat veteran. I’ve killed people. I know what that shit feels like, and I have no desire whatsoever to feel that again. Not even a piece of shit like Caleb, not even after everything he’s done to me. Do I forgive him? No. He better hope I never lay eyes on him again.”
It strikes me that Logan’s outburst is only tangentially connected to what we were talking about. It seems like there’s a lot going on under the surface, when it comes to Logan.
The driver halts precisely in front of Logan’s address, puts the vehicle into park, gets out, opens Logan’s door. He’s stubborn, so he’s out before I can hop out and run around. He doesn’t want to need my help. But he does. He has a hard timegetting the key into the lock, but I let him do it. He won’t adjust if he doesn’t try, right? I hate watching him fumble, though.
We’re in, hitting lights, and Logan is working on the alarm. I move past him, to let out Cocoa, his bear-sized chocolate lab. I notice something, though. Tufts of cotton, drifting across the hardwood floor. A scrap of gray fabric, lying partway out of the hallway.
“Logan?”
“Yeah, babe.”
“Is there anyone who would have checked on Cocoa?”
“I e-mailed Beth and asked her to check in. Why?” He moves to stand beside me. Another ball of wadded cotton bounces across the floor like a tumbleweed. “Oh. Shit. She must’ve gotten out.”
Another step farther into the house. More damage. A leather loafer lies on its side in the hallway leading to the bedroom, chewed to bits. Another few steps—a hooded sweatshirt, torn to pieces, chewed, wet with doggy saliva. The other loafer, similarly destroyed.
“Goddamn it.” Logan sighs, but doesn’t seem angry. “Cocoa? C’mere, girl! Daddy’s home!”
Daddy’s home.That hurts my heart in an odd, terrifying place. I stuff that hurt down, stuff the simmering thoughts and fears down. It’s not true. Not possible. It’s just not. Just no.
I follow Logan into the hallway. More clothes are strewn across the floor in the hallway, all of them chewed, slobbered on, utterly shredded. No sign of Cocoa, though. A thudding sound is audible, however:thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.A tail hitting a mattress, possibly?
Logan kicks at the piles of destroyed clothing. Shirts, slacks, shoes, boots, a leather jacket. A towel.
We arrive at the doorway of the spare room where Logan keeps Cocoa while he’s gone. The doorway is... just gone.Splintered. There’s a bit of door attached at the hinges, the shredded, splintered frame, the knob on the floor. But the door itself? No more. Splinters coat the carpet in the spare room, lie scattered across the hardwood floor of the hallway in a blast radius that extends into the bathroom and Logan’s room. It looks like explosive charges were leveled at the door.
My heart in my throat, I follow Logan into his bedroom, peering over his shoulder.
The room is wrecked. The TV has been knocked over, shattered. The bedside lamp, same. The headboard has been chewed to splinters, same with the footboard. The blankets and sheets are twisted into a pile on the bed, chewed, slobbered, clawed. And in the middle of the bed, under the pile of sheets and blankets? Cocoa.
Tail thumping steadily. Chin on her paws, ears drooping. Eyes wide. The perfect picture of canine innocence.
“Holy fucking shit, Cocoa!”
I’m not sure what to expect from him. Anger? Frustration, at least. Instead, he kneels on the floor, pats his thigh.
