Chapter 2 - The Man Who Wasn't Supposed to Hire Me
Bishop's growl was almost too low to hear.
Rener heard it.
So did Adrian.
The dog didn't lunge.
Didn't bare his teeth.
He simply stared at Rener.
Every muscle tightened.
Rener slowly stepped backward.
“Interesting,” Adrian said.
Rener's jaw flexed. “He's unstable.”
“No,” I said.
Both men looked at me.
“He's specific.”
That was worse.
Adrian ordered everyone out except me.
Rener objected.
Once.
Adrian didn't raise his voice.
“Outside.”
Rener left.
The door shut.
For a man whose reputation supposedly depended on intimidation, Adrian Voss was remarkably economical with it.
He crouched again.
“Tell me everything Rener said when he hired you.”
I did.
The diner.
The private position.
The cash.
Eli's medical coverage.
The car arriving in three days.
Adrian listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he asked, “Did he mention me?”
“No.”
“My organization?”
“No.”
“And you came anyway?”
“My brother needs surgery.”
It sounded inadequate when I said it aloud.
Adrian didn't mock me.
“What surgery?”
“Spinal stabilization. His condition is degenerative.”
“When?”
“As soon as we can afford it.”
“How much?”
“That isn't relevant.”
“You crossed the gates of a house you suspected belonged to criminals because you needed money. It's extremely relevant.”
Anger rose before caution could stop it.
“You don't get to make that sound stupid.”
One eyebrow lifted.
“I didn't.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No. I made it sound desperate.”
That silenced me.
Because he was right.
Adrian stood.
“You'll stay.”
“What?”
“For seventy-two hours.”
“I thought that was for Bishop.”
“It is. You're the person evaluating him.”
“You expect me to sleep here?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Then leave.”
I blinked.
He gestured toward the door.
“No one is keeping you prisoner, Ms. Callaway.”
That was not the response I'd expected.
“If you leave,” he continued, “I'll have another specialist brought in. Bishop won't be euthanized until that evaluation is complete.”
“You'd guarantee that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His eyes moved toward the dog.
“Because he belonged to my brother.”
Something changed.
“Belonged?”
“My younger brother, Julian, died two years ago.”
Bishop lifted his head at the name.
Adrian saw it.
So did I.
“He remembers,” I said.
“He should.”
Adrian's voice was quieter now.
“Julian raised him.”
That explained the dog's place in the estate.
And possibly why someone might want him removed.
I stayed.
Not because I trusted Adrian.
I trusted Bishop.
Over the next six hours, I examined every available veterinary record.
Bishop had been healthy.
Stable.
No previous bite incidents.
No neurological disease.
No unexplained aggression.
Then, three months earlier, his behavior had changed.
Restlessness.
Pacing.
Two incidents of snapping at staff.
Both occurred in the west corridor of the main house.
Both late at night.
I requested the names of employees present.
Rener brought me a folder.
I watched him place it on the table.
Bishop was lying beside my chair.
The moment Rener entered, his head came up.
“Still doesn't like me,” Rener said.
“Maybe he has good judgment.”
Rener smiled without humor.
“You should be careful.”
“Is that advice?”
“Yes.”
“Or a threat?”
His smile disappeared.
Before he could answer, Adrian entered.
Rener immediately stepped away.
That relationship fascinated me.
Rener worked for Adrian.
But something about it felt strained.
Adrian handed me a tablet.
“Security footage.”
“From eleven days ago?”
“What's left of it.”
I looked up.
“What's left?”
“Forty-three minutes were deleted.”
My stomach sank.
“When?”
“Two hours after the incident.”
“By whom?”
“We don't know.”
Rener said, “System administrator credentials.”
Adrian looked at him.
“Credentials belonging to someone who's been dead for two years.”
Julian.
I opened the footage.
At 11:16 p.m., Bishop walked through the west corridor.
Calm.
At 11:18, he stopped.
His ears lifted.
Then his body jerked.
He spun toward his collar.
Again.
A second jerk.
He began pacing.
“He's being stimulated,” I said.
Adrian leaned closer.
“How can you tell?”
“Watch his neck.”
Another jerk.
Bishop scratched frantically at the collar.
Then ran.
The footage ended.
Deleted.
It resumed forty-three minutes later.
Staff members were rushing through the hallway.
Bishop was gone.
A man named Marcus Bell was on the floor clutching his arm.
Rener appeared twenty seconds later.
I replayed it.
Again.
Again.
Something bothered me.
“Where were you?”
Rener's expression hardened.
“At the south gate.”
“Then how did you arrive in twenty seconds?”
Silence.
Adrian looked at him.
Rener answered carefully.
“I was already returning.”
“Security log?” Adrian asked.
“I'd have to check.”
Adrian didn't blink.
“Do that.”
Rener left.
I watched him go.
“You don't trust him,” I said.
“Trust isn't binary.”
“That's a very mafia answer.”
For the first time, Adrian almost smiled.
“That's a very reckless thing to say in my house.”
“Am I wrong?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
That evening, Bishop was moved to a private room near the estate's veterinary space.
I slept—or tried to sleep—in a guest suite upstairs.
At 1:37 a.m., scratching woke me.
I opened the door.
Bishop stood there.
“How did you get out?”
He turned.
Walked down the hallway.
Stopped.
Looked back.
“You want me to follow you?”
Apparently.
We went downstairs.
Through the dark main hall.
Into the west corridor.
Bishop stopped outside a closed door.
Julian's study.
Adrian had told me it hadn't been used since his brother died.
Bishop scratched once.
I tried the handle.
Unlocked.
The room smelled like dust and cedar.
Bishop walked directly to a bookcase.
Then sat.
I turned on my phone flashlight.
“What's here?”
He pawed at the bottom shelf.
Behind several books, I found a wooden panel.
Loose.
I pulled it away.
Inside was a small metal box.
Locked.
Bishop whined.
Then the lights came on.
I spun around.
Adrian stood in the doorway.
Barefoot.
Black trousers.
White shirt, sleeves rolled up.
He looked from me to the box.
“What are you doing?”
“Your dog brought me.”
“That sounds convenient.”
“Ask him.”
Adrian entered.
He recognized the box immediately.
“Julian's.”
“You know what's inside?”
“No.”
He took it.
There was a fingerprint reader on top.
Adrian pressed his thumb against it.
Red.
Again.
Red.
Then Bishop approached.
His collar bumped the box.
A tiny light flashed green.
Click.
The lock opened.
We stared at each other.
Inside were photographs.
Financial documents.
A flash drive.
And an envelope.
Adrian removed it.
Written across the front:
ADRIAN — IF SOMETHING HAPPENS TO ME, DON'T TRUST THE STORY THEY GIVE YOU.
Adrian stopped breathing for a second.
“That's Julian's handwriting.”
He opened it.
There was only one piece of paper.
One sentence.
Bishop knows who was there.
A floorboard creaked behind us.
Adrian turned.
Nobody.
Then Bishop exploded to his feet and raced into the corridor.
We followed.
The hallway was empty.
But the rear door was open.
Someone had been listening.
Adrian's phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed.
“When?”
Silence.
“Lock the gates.”
He hung up.
“What happened?” I asked.
He looked directly at me.
“Rener's gone.”
My pulse accelerated.
“Gone where?”
“We don't know.”
Then he looked at the envelope.
“And forty minutes ago, someone accessed my brother's old security credentials again.”
I swallowed.
“To do what?”
May you like
Adrian's answer was almost a whisper.
“To pull your brother's medical file.”
