Free Material Witness by Vannetta Chapman Page B

pharmaceutical rep, but she still received the trade magazines. They made for good late-night reading when she couldn’t sleep. Her mind cycled through the most common drugs used in tranq darts: Domosedan and… what was the other? Something that started with an
F
. There was a third as well, but now her mind had gone blank. These people did not strike her as professionals. They could have used the wrong drug and the wrong dosage. As she pulled Max onto the tarp, then dragged the tarp to the back door of the shop, she kept her tears at bay. He wasn’t dead. If they’d used the wrong dosage or the wrong drug, he’d already be dead.
    Unlocking the back door to her shop, she pulled him up the small loading ramp the deliverymen used before closing and locking the door behind her. Hurrying through the shop, which was silent except for the sounds coming from the low hum of her appliances, she closed and locked the front door as well.
    Then she stood completely still and listened.
    It didn’t sound as if anyone were inside with her.
    It didn’t
feel
as if anyone were inside with her.
    She picked up an umbrella by the front door — it was the old-fashioned kind, left here from when Aunt Daisy was still alive. She hadn’t had the heart to throw it away. Weighing over a pound and nearly thirty inches long, the end was metal and so sharp Callie once considered using it to spear trash as she walked around the yard.
    Tonight she might need it for something else.

Chapter 7
    F IRST C ALLIE CHECKED ON M AX, who still lay in the hall by the back door. No more than fifteen minutes had passed since he’d been hit with the tranquilizer dart. His breathing had evened out, but he continued to sleep soundly — unnaturally. She had no idea if he’d be out for twenty minutes or for twelve hours. She didn’t know enough about these types of drugs and how they worked on dogs.
    What she needed to do was boot up her laptop.
    What she needed to do was call her vet.
    Or Shane.
    Instead, she covered Max with the lap blanket from one of the chairs in the sitting area, picked up her monster umbrella, slung it over her shoulder like a bat, and began walking through the shop, from aisle to aisle, checking for intruders.
    No one was there, but the register drawer was open, its contents spilled on the floor.
    A peek in her office revealed the computer was on. The screen saver cycled back and forth from a photo of the girls’ quilts on display at the Chicago Museum of Arts to one of her and Max sitting in the garden. She’d taken that one with the self-portrait feature of her new camera and had uploaded it to the computer less than a week ago. Was it the last photo she’d have of her and Max?
    Pushing the thought away, she reached forward and moved the mouse. The monitor displayed all of her folders, files, and accounts. Who had been on her computer? Who knew the password to log on? She had the computer set to
sleep
after thirty minutes of inactivity, so had someone been in her office and on her computer less than thirty minutes ago?
    Tightening her grip on the umbrella, Callie stepped out of the office and into the hall. She tried the door to her apartment, found it unlocked, and started cautiously up the stairs.
    The eighth stair creaked when she stepped on it, and she froze, holding her breath while she listened for any movement. It was hard to hear anything above her pulse thundering in her ears.
    After waiting two minutes, she wiped her hands on her dress — they were so slick with sweat, she was sure she would drop the umbrella — before continuing her climb to the top of the steps. When she rounded the corner and took the first look at her apartment, her legs nearly failed her.
    She clapped her hand over her mouth, but there was no preventing the cry that escaped her lips.
    Every drawer was open, every object within them spilled out onto the floor. Cushions had been pulled from the couch, and her bedding had been ripped off the mattress,