Free Dog Crazy by Meg Donohue Page B

ashes to that beach. Someday. But at the moment, even with three trips beyond the gate under my belt, even if I were to bring Giselle with me, it seems an impossible feat.
    T HAT NIGHT, SLEEPLESS as ever, I pull my laptop into bed and open a new e-mail. Giselle, who is curled up with her head on the pillow beside mine, opens her eyes and looks at me but doesn’t move. I might be a little nuts with all my hand washing and vitamins, but I have no problem with a dog sleeping on my bed. Mental illness. Go figure.
    I start typing, feeling Giselle’s gaze on me the whole time.

    Dear Anya,

    I hope that Billy has returned. If he hasn’t, I’d like to help you look for him.

    Maggie Brennan

    I insert the e-mail address from the flyer that Anya had left with me, take a breath, and press send.
    Moments later, Anya’s name appears in my in-box. Meet me tomorrow at nine a.m., she writes, followed by an address.
    Tomorrow is Sunday and I don’t have any patient sessions scheduled. I Google the address Anya sent and see that she lives within walking distance of Cole Valley in a neighborhood called Ashbury Heights.
    I look at Giselle, silently asking her if she’s up for it. She rolls onto her side, groans, and then the smell hits me. It seems that the poodle’s delicate system is no match for Toby’s old biscuits.
    â€œGiselle!” I moan. I yank the covers up over my head, sealing myself away. My computer glows in the darkness of the cave I’ve created.
    I’ll be there, I respond, and send the e-mail before I can change my mind.

Chapter 6

    T he winding streets of Ashbury Heights have an eccentric, storybook feel. Unlike Philadelphia, where the rows of homes have an elegant, colonial monotony, the houses in San Francisco are all different—a Victorian flanked by a Craftsman flanked by a midcentury modern. It’s architectural mayhem; trying to guess what one house will look like based on the neighboring house is like trying to forecast tomorrow’s weather based on today’s—in this city, you just never know. I’d forgotten this in my months in the apartment.
    I keep Giselle close and search for Sutro Tower after each turn, breathing through waves of dizziness and dread. Anya’s flyers—the ones with the photograph of Billy—are taped to every telephone pole and street sign I pass along the way. Those wildly leaping and grinning Billys keep me going. The woman who tookthat photo loves her dog and is lost without him, and maybe I can help her.
    When I reach the address Anya gave me, I double-check her e-mail. This can’t be right, I think, looking up at the house from across the street. But it is.
    The house is set on a double-wide lot and is twice the size of the neighboring houses, each of which make Lourdes’s perfectly lovely Victorian seem about the size of a Pomeranian’s doghouse. I stand rooted to the sidewalk for a moment, surprised not only by the sheer size of the house but also by the fact that it is, quite literally, falling apart. Every inch of the painted white trim appears to be peeling. Rotted shingles cling so tenuously to the roof they seem in imminent danger of dropping to the ground, like browned petals from a dying bloom. A driveway of crumbling concrete runs beside the house, barred at the sidewalk by a gate covered in shiny, poisonous-looking vines and cinched tight by a rusted padlock.
    I wonder which floor Anya’s apartment is on, and hope, for both of our sakes, that it isn’t the top story—two of the three windows up there, tucked into a row of eaves, are boarded over.
    Giselle, naturally, isn’t bothered. She looks up at me and slowly wags her tail. What’s the holdup? she seems to be asking. I take a deep breath and cross the street.
    A rustling sound stops me in my tracks. When a man emerges from the shadows in front of the house, I jump, gripping Giselle’s leash tight in my hand, and