Chapter 8 - The Warehouse Was Only the Beginning
For one insane second, I almost believed Vivienne was confessing.
Then she continued.
“Not if you don’t trust me.”
There it was.
A reversal.
Make me defend myself.
Make me prove love through obedience.
A tactic I might once have fallen for.
I reached for her hand.
“Vivienne.”
She pulled away.
“No. I mean it.”
“I said I trust you.”
“Then sign.”
Silence settled between us.
I thought of Bruno in a cage.
The wedding timeline.
5:45 — bedroom.
6:10 — doctor call.
I picked up the pen.
Vivienne’s breathing slowed.
Then I wrote one sentence across the signature line.
SUBJECT TO COUNSEL REVIEW.
She stared.
“What is that?”
“Trust doesn’t mean stupidity.”
Her face hardened.
“Forget it.”
She grabbed the folder.
That night, she slept facing away from me.
I did not sleep at all.
At 2:12 a.m., she got out of bed.
I kept my breathing steady.
She entered the bathroom.
Water ran.
Then stopped.
A whisper.
“I don’t know.”
Pause.
“No, he hasn’t signed.”
Pause.
“You said the dog was secure.”
My hands curled beneath the blanket.
Another pause.
“What do you mean he was moved again?”
Then:
“Julian, if Adrian finds out—”
Silence.
“I know what happens.”
She ended the call.
When she returned, I pretended to be asleep.
At breakfast, she announced she was going to her sister’s house.
Vivienne didn’t have a sister.
“Tell her I said hello,” I replied.
She studied me.
Then left.
Caleb followed.
Ethan and I reviewed the warehouse evidence.
One object had seemed unimportant initially.
A shipping label stuck beneath the dog cage.
The printed destination had been torn away, but a barcode remained.
Ethan’s analyst reconstructed the tracking sequence.
The cage had originally been delivered to a private veterinary facility called Willow Creek Animal Recovery.
Forty miles west.
We drove there.
The facility specialized in rehabilitation after surgery, boarding for large breeds, and private transport.
The receptionist looked at Bruno’s photograph.
Recognition flashed across her face.
Then disappeared.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve seen him.”
“No.”
Ethan placed a business card on the counter.
“We’re investigating a stolen animal.”
“You need to leave.”
A man emerged from the back.
Late fifties.
Veterinary scrubs.
“Problem?”
I showed Bruno’s photograph.
His eyes shifted.
“You treated him.”
“I don’t discuss client animals.”
“He’s mine.”
“Then show ownership documentation.”
I did.
Microchip number.
Veterinary records.
Registration.
Photographs spanning eight years.
The man’s resistance weakened.
Finally, he closed the front door and turned the sign to CLOSED.
“My name is Dr. Kent.”
“Where is Bruno?”
“He’s not here.”
“Was he?”
“Yes.”
My pulse jumped.
“Who brought him?”
“A woman named Valerie Moore.”
“Vivienne Laurent?”
“I never saw identification.”
“Blonde?”
“Yes.”
“Man with her?”
“Later.”
“Julian Cross?”
“I don’t know him.”
I showed a photograph.
Dr. Kent went pale.
“Yes.”
“What did they tell you?”
“That the dog belonged to the man. That he was aggressive and needed sedation for transport.”
“Did Bruno act aggressive?”
“No.”
“Then why sedate him?”
“They paid for private handling.”
My voice hardened.
“You drugged a dog without verifying ownership.”
His shame showed.
“I made a mistake.”
“Where did they take him?”
“I don’t know.”
I stepped closer.
Ethan intervened.
“Doctor, anything they said matters.”
Dr. Kent rubbed his forehead.
“The man complained about having to move the dog again. He said something about Harrow.”
“Harrow what?”
“I don’t know. Farm. House. Maybe a person.”
Ethan searched his tablet.
“Harrow Farm?”
“No.”
“Harrow Road?”
The doctor looked up.
“Yes. I think that was it.”
Harrow Road ran along the edge of an old industrial district and then into countryside.
Twenty-seven miles long.
Not enough.
Then Dr. Kent remembered something else.
“They needed medication for four days.”
“What medication?”
“Sedative tablets.”
“Four days from when?”
“Yesterday.”
Four days.
The wedding was in three.
They intended to keep Bruno sedated until after.
I showed him the wedding timeline.
He looked sick.
“Could any of these drugs hurt a person?”
“If misused, yes.”
“Could they cause unconsciousness?”
“Yes.”
“Could they mimic a medical emergency?”
“Depending on dosage and combination.”
I thanked him.
Then I said, “Call Detective Morales. Tell her everything.”
We left.
On the road, Caleb phoned.
“I lost Vivienne.”
“How?”
“She entered a shopping garage. Her car came out. Another driver.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked at Ethan.
“She knows we followed.”
Then my own phone rang.
Vivienne.
I answered.
“Hey.”
Her voice sounded warm.
“Adrian, where are you?”
“Office.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“I miss you.”
Something was wrong.
“I miss you too.”
“I’ve been thinking about last night.”
“So have I.”
“I want us to stop fighting.”
“Good.”
“Come home.”
“I will.”
“Now.”
I looked at Ethan.
“Why?”
“Because I have something for you.”
“What?”
“A surprise.”
Then I heard something in the background.
A heavy pant.
A collar jingle.
My heart stopped.
“Vivienne.”
“Yes?”
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
She was lying.
But Bruno was near her.
Then another sound.
A man’s voice.
Distant.
“Move the dog.”
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
Ethan had heard it.
“She has him.”
“Or she’s where he is.”
We traced the call.
Not precisely.
But the tower narrowed it.
Harrow Road.
I drove.
Ethan didn’t try to stop me this time.
Ten miles down Harrow Road, we passed abandoned factories.
Fifteen miles, farmland.
At mile eighteen, I saw a black Mercedes turning through a stone entrance.
A white horse emblem was fixed to the gate.
Crosswood’s private training annex.
I accelerated.
The Mercedes disappeared behind trees.
Then another vehicle pulled across the road.
A black SUV.
Blocking us.
Three men stepped out.
Ethan reached for his phone.
“Adrian, do not—”
One of the men raised a metal bar.
And behind him, from somewhere beyond the trees, I heard Bruno roar.
Not bark.
Roar.
The sound I had been waiting three days to hear.
He was alive.
He knew I was there.
May you like
And this time, nobody was moving him again.
---
