Free Left Hanging by Patricia McLinn Page A

my consent.”
    “Very well. I asked. Why you have to get every last detail when all—”
    “It’s my profession, Mom.”
    “That’s precisely the point,” she said in triumph. “It doesn’t need to be your profession any longer. Before, with Wes pushing you every step, that was one thing. But on your own, the way you are now, you can take something slower, more relaxed. You’ve been strained for so long, trying to keep up with that career Wes put you in. This will suit you better. Not to mention it will give you more time to have a normal social life. You’d be closer to home in St. Louis. You could come home for weekends—”
    So much for normal social life.
    “—and truly be a part of the family.”
    “Now, Cat, that’s not fair. Maggie Liz is part of the family.” The childhood nickname inverting and shortening my first and middle name always warmed me.
    “Of course she is,” she shot back, as if she hadn’t just said otherwise. “But how can she be, way out there by herself in that shack she’s living in?”
    It was early, but if I’d heard her right, my mother had contradicted her contradiction. Which, by my counting, still had me not being part of my family. In that case, why had she called me at dawn?
    I might be foolhardy at times, but I’m not an idiot. I didn’t ask. “Sorry, Mom, Dad—I have to get ready for work. Talk to you later.”
    I hung up before they could do the time-zone math.
    I made good on my fib by showering, dressing, eating breakfast, and putting out food and water for the canine shadow that had been materializing in my yard over the past weeks. In fact, I’d named him Shadow. Although, I appeared to be the only one who recognized that as his name.
    Ever since he’d sided with me against an interloper during the pursuit of Foster Redus’ murderer, the dog no longer disappeared at the sight of me. On the other hand, he didn’t come running when I called his name, either. Or when I put out his food and water.
    “Morning, Shadow,” I said.
    He watched from a safe distance, approaching the bowls perched on the stump in the barren back yard only when I retreated to the steps.
    I’d read a book about dogs last week that said some were praise-motivated while others were food-motivated or play-motivated. The first thing in training a dog was to figure out what motivated yours. The writer suggested paying close attention during all interaction for clues. Since Shadow avoided interaction, I was short on clues.
    Most mornings I was in enough of a hurry that I’d go inside at this point. Today, I sat on the back steps.
    He stopped. Stared at me, flashed a glance at the bowls, back to me.
    I sat and waited.
    Me, bowls, me. Then a shift. Not only was it bowls, me, bowls, but the looks at the bowls lingered.
    He took a step toward the bowls, shot me a suspicious look, which found me innocently sitting in the same spot as the previous check. Took another step, looking at me. A third.
    Then he turned away for several steps—presumably so he wouldn’t run into the stump. Because as soon as he reached it, he pinned me with a long, assessing stare.
    At last, he turned away and chomped on a mouthful of food. He watched me while he chewed. So went the entire meal. Although when the food was gone, he turned away long enough to lap up water. Finally, he turned to me again. His chocolate-brown eyes looking directly into mine, he belched.
    I laughed.
    Startled, he darted five yards away, stopped, and looked back at me, still on the steps, still chuckling.
    “Glad you enjoyed it, Shadow. Have a good day,” I called.
    He stared for a long moment, turned slowly and loped away. But we’d made progress, I decided. Real progress.
    Having been awakened early, I also had time to call Dex before I left the hovel, as I had come to think of this house. I timed the call to hit his morning break, knowing he’d be out feeding squirrels at the FBI facility in Quantico, Virginia.
    “Do you know a