Chapter 1 - The Tray Between the Teeth
“HEY!”
Mave's voice cut through the Copper Anchor like a dropped anchor chain. She had a black serving tray in one hand and a wet linen towel in the other. Both were shaking. She was frightened enough to taste metal, but nineteen-year-old Toby was on the floor with a hundred-and-twenty-pound dog gripping his uniform jacket, and nobody with a gun had made him any safer.
“Stop pulling him,” she told Declan Gallagher.
Declan looked at her as though she'd spoken another language. His enormous hands were locked around Brutus's collar. A moment earlier he'd struck the animal in panic. Now the dog's neck strained against his grip, its paws scrabbling on the hardwood.
“You want me to let him go?”
“I want you to stop making him fight you. Keep hold of the leash. Give him room to breathe.”
Mave had spent two summers volunteering at the county shelter before her mother's illness consumed every spare hour. She knew that did not make her a trainer, and it certainly did not make this safe. It gave her just enough sense to notice what the armed men hadn't: Toby was pulling desperately against the jacket, the dog was pulling back, and the overturned silverware was still rattling beneath a fallen chair.
“Everyone quiet,” she said. “Please.”
The last word emerged softer. It worked better than the first.
Gallagher lowered his voice. “Brutus. With me.”
Mave laid the towel over the scattered cutlery to stop its metallic clatter. Then she placed the broad tray between Toby's face and the dog's shoulders, a barrier rather than a weapon. Brutus's eyes flicked toward her, then toward Declan. His jaw eased against the thick cloth for half a second.
“Don't yank away,” Mave whispered to Toby. “Wait. I'm right here.”
Declan repeated the familiar command. The dog's grip loosened. Toby slid backward out of his damaged jacket while Mave kept the tray steady. Declan guided Brutus away from the boy and behind an intact booth, where his leash could be secured without anyone touching his mouth.
Toby stared at the sleeve dangling from the animal's jaws. His own shoulder remained inside his undershirt. He was shaking uncontrollably.
“Call an ambulance,” Mave said. “And put those guns away.”
One of Gallagher's guards began to object. Declan looked up. “You heard her.”
The guns disappeared. It should not have required his permission.
Mave knelt beside Toby. He could move his fingers; his shoulder hurt, and dark bruising showed where the jacket had been compressed. She did not tell him he was fine. She didn't know that.
Toby looked beyond her toward the rumpled carpet. “Arthur moved the rug,” he whispered.
Mave wanted to ask him what he meant, but he was trembling too hard to finish. She kept her voice steady and stayed with him.
“My sister's waiting up,” he said.
“Then we'll tell her where you are. What's her number?”
A stranger in a velvet jacket offered to film from two feet away. Mave held up her palm. “Please give him some room.”
The stranger retreated. In the sudden quiet, Mave heard Brutus whimper behind the booth. Declan's breath caught at the sound. The boss looked less like a legend than a man who had nearly lost someone and did not know where to put his hands.
Arthur emerged from behind the bar and surveyed the wrecked table. “This is a disaster. We have a full private booking tomorrow.”
“Toby needs a doctor,” Mave said.
“Obviously. I'm talking about the insurance.”
Declan got to his feet. He was broad through the shoulders, his face battered into a hard square around pale, exhausted eyes. The other men went still. He didn't threaten Arthur. He simply asked, “Why are you talking about furniture?”
The emergency dispatcher told Mave to keep Toby seated and calm. She stayed with him until paramedics arrived. A waitress from the front room brought a clean blanket. Someone else handed Toby a phone so he could call his sister, Liv. Ordinary help finally began to appear, belated and imperfect.
As the stretcher rolled away, Toby caught Mave's wrist. “I didn't knock that rug loose.”
“What?”
“The corner. I watched Arthur tape it down after lunch. I saw him do it.” Toby swallowed painfully. “Before those three guys came in, he pulled the tape back up.”
Mave looked across the dining room. The rug lay folded beside the overturned table, its pale adhesive strip curling against the floor. Arthur was no longer there.
Declan came to stand beside her, keeping his voice low. “That dog is my responsibility. Whatever happens to him, Toby gets taken care of.”
“Ask Toby what taking care of him means,” Mave replied. “Don't decide for him.”
Declan accepted that without argument. It surprised her more than his apology would have.
A woman in a cream coat approached with her phone held carefully in both hands. “I recorded most of it. Your manager told me to delete the part before the dog jumped.”
“Did you?” Mave asked.
“No.”
“Please don't put Toby's face online. He didn't agree to that.”
The woman nodded and promised to preserve the original video. Declan gave her his attorney's contact and asked that she also provide it to the police. For once, Mave thought, the powerful man's money might be useful without becoming the whole answer.
At the point-of-sale station, the security screen blinked. Nine minutes of camera footage were marked MISSING. Mave knew because she'd checked the time when the rival men entered, and the display now skipped directly from 12:12 to 12:21.
Arthur reappeared carrying his jacket. “I'm closing up. Everyone go home.”
“Where's the original recording?” she asked.
“Camera failure.”
“During exactly nine minutes?”
He avoided her eyes. “You've had a long night, Mave. Go see your mother.”
Her phone vibrated. It was a reminder from the hospital billing department: an overdue payment, followed by a warning about tomorrow's appointment. Mave put it away without answering. Arthur watched her screen go dark.
Then the woman in the cream coat showed Mave one final frame of her own video. It wasn't the lunging dog. It was Arthur, ten minutes earlier, kneeling by the carpet and peeling the silver tape away.
Behind him stood one of the three strangers in flashy suits, his phone pointed toward the private booth.
“Tell me you kept that,” Mave said.
“I kept everything.”
Across the room, Arthur saw the phone. His face changed. He reached for his own and typed a message with a speed Mave had never seen from him.
On the security monitor, the nine missing minutes disappeared from the index altogether.
May you like
But the woman hadn't stopped recording.
And neither, Mave suddenly realized, had Arthur's accomplice.
