Free Unforgettable by Meryl Sawyer Page A

been allowed to show affection. An electric shock with a cattle prod would have been his punishment had he even tried. Greg encouraged him to show his emotions, but all he got was a cold nose on his hand, never a warm lick, the canine expression of love.
    “Pele adored animals,” someone said, “especially sharks.”
    Lucky was petting Dodger now, stroking his silky ears, but her smile had vanished, replaced by a tight frown. What was she thinking?
    A long-buried memory returned with startling clarity. Suddenly, he was a heartsick seven-year-old again, standing at the Humane Society with tears in his eyes. His parents had been killed in a car crash. He and Cody were going to live with their aunt. Muffin couldn’t come. He was too old to survive the six-month quarantine in Hawaii, Aunt Sis claimed.
    Some nice family would adopt Muffin, she insisted when Greg had refused to part with the dog his father had given him. He knew a lie when he heard one—especially from Aunt Sis. People wanted cute puppies, not stick-ugly mutts with gray muzzles.
    At that moment, he’d needed his dog so much. Nothing could erase the pain of his parents’ sudden death, but holding Muffin, having his dog sleeping beside his bed eased his heartache. He didn’t want to leave him like this.
    He stood in front of the cage and said a prayer, begging the Lord to have mercy, to send Muffin to some nice family, to give him another boy who would love him with all his heart.
    Although dozens of years had passed, Muffin’s face still haunted him. Black nose between the bars. Tail wagging hopefully. Soulful eyes pleading: Don’t leave me. Muffin had been put to sleep, alone and forsaken, believing Greg had deserted him.
    That’s what the woman was feeling. Abandoned. Hopeless. For one shining moment, Dodger had lifted her spirits.
    Lucky abruptly stopped patting Dodger. She rose, regarding the silent crowd with a stare that seemed to go right through them, a look that made them all seem like the sleazy voyeurs they were. She turned away, now regarding them with something that bordered on disdain. It was an imperious gesture, and it took everyone, including Greg, by surprise. Until he realized Lucky had lost everything on earth—except her pride.
    The crowd watched as regally she sat on the bed, turning her back on them. Aloof, she put her head in the co rn er. Her riot of curls tumbled forward, shielding the sides of her face from the mob and revealing the small shaved patch on the back of her head.
    Primal rage shot through him. He grabbed the jailer by the throat, yelling, “All of you—get the hell out of here.”
     
     
    W hy couldn’t they leave her in peace? Lucky wondered. She should be used to the gawking, the snickering. Being treated like a lower life form incapable of feelings. She tried to concentrate on counting her footsteps as she paced the cell, blocking out the people watching her.
    But she couldn’t ignore Greg. Seeing Dodger had filled her with such happiness. At last someone—even if it was a dog—was glad to see her. Then it had dawned on her that Greg must be somewhere nearby.
    His voice had ripped through the crowd as sharp as a new razor. Right now she could hear the shuffling of feet. People were leaving. Please, God, make Greg go too. Don’t let him see me like this.
    She wasn’t anyone worth saving. This single thought had haunted her these past days. No one had come forward to identify her. Adding to her misery, the owner of the car rental agency was pressing charges. The public defender representing her was convinced she would be convicted.
    Just when she thought she’d hit bottom, Cody Braxton had informed her that she had been wearing a dead woman’s tennis shoe. She had racked her brain for some plausible explanation, her stomach churning at the macabre thought. She remembered putting on the shoe and knowing it wasn’t hers. But how had she gotten it?
    A variety of scenarios flashed through her mind. All of