12
NINE
“I need to look for a dog.” Ana shoved her phone back into her pocket. “Do you have any sausages? Or cheese?”
“We already found a dog. Or it found us.”
“Different dog. This one belongs to the victim. A papillon.”
“She was walking it when she got attacked?”
That suggested terrible spatial awareness.
“Who knows? Emmy just said it’s missing. The sausages?”
“I don’t have sausages. Paulo keeps burger slices in the refrigerator, but I’m fairly sure there’s no actual cheese in them. How about cat treats?”
Ana shrugged, and she’d confirmed that Ana was the name she went by now. Nastya had died back in Russia.
“Those would probably work.”
I nodded toward the jar with Pickle written across it in pink glitter glue—more of Paulo’s handiwork.
“In there.”
“Spasiba. I’ll be back soon
