The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

Jack Benton already had a library, an oncology wing at Johns Hopkins, a regional airport, and a highway named after him. Apparently he didn’t want a veterinary hospital.”
    Critchley appears to mull this over.
    “I’ve no pets of my own, but I’ve heard from several reliable sources that your late father was a well-loved member of the community and had quite a gift for communication.”
    Though I manage a curt smile, I’m amazed at how much it hurts to hear this compliment, even after all these years. It spotlights one of the saddest keepsakes of my childhood. Sure, Cobb had a knack for mixing charm and compassion, no doubt about it, but at what price? If you’re always there for your patients, how can you be there for your son? It smarts to hear Critchley’s praise, like bumping an old bruise that’s refused to fade away. Growing up I would have killed for a father with a gift for communication with me .
    “Yeah, well it’s complicated,” I say instead of what I’m thinking.
    Thankfully, Critchley appears no more interested in hearing about said complications than I am willing to share. “Before I go any further, Dr. Mills,” he stresses my last name, “I need to see official proof of your relationship with the deceased?”
    I reach into my wallet, pull out my South Carolina driver’s license, and hand it over. Then I pick up the FedEx package on the table next to the envelope tower. Inside, together with my copy of the will, there’s my birth certificate, and a notarized copy of the court order approving the change in my last name.
    He scrutinizes everything, going all TSA on me. He takes his time with the birth certificate. “Mills was your late mother’s maiden name? Ruth Mills?”
    “Correct,” I say, stamping a little authority on the word in the hopes that I will shut him down before he asks the obvious question about the name change—why?
    Thankfully Critchley makes no further comment, returns the proof, and hands over his summary. “As you can see, at the time of his death Dr. Cobb owed money to virtually every company with which he did business, from purveyors of pet food through to disposal of biohazardous material. I’ve listed the dollar amount for each, and the total is at the bottom of the page.”
    “I’m led to believe Cobb was quite ill for the last few months of his life.”
    Critchley hesitates but doesn’t blink an eye. “Not my problem.”
    But the way he looks at me makes me feel like he’s also saying, and clearly not your problem, either .
    “Dr. Cobb did apply for a second mortgage on this property,” he says.
    “A second mortgage? But this house was a gift. When did he get his first mortgage?”
    “About twenty years ago. Not sure how it got approved. Probably back when he was filing joint tax returns with your late mother.”
    Mom worked from home. As I said, she was a veterinary pathologist like me. Stained slides of diseased tissue arrived in the post in the morning, were read under a microscope, and a written report was sent out in the afternoon mail.
    “Naturally this second mortgage application was denied. We did, however, offer to consolidate his debt, at, I might add, an extremely competitive and reasonable rate of interest.”
    With this he hands over a second sheet of paper. I see the figure the bank requires the practice to pay off on a monthly basis. The neon pink highlight only makes the number seem even more ridiculous.
    “You sure this is correct? From what I’ve seen of the books, the practice hasn’t come close to ever making that kind of a minimum monthly interest payment.”
    “Again, Dr. Mills, not my problem.”
    Sensing Critchley’s eyes upon me as I scan the numbers, I look up. He may not be gloating but I can tell he’s enjoying himself.
    “That brings me to the will.” He pauses for effect. “I regret to inform you that the original offer to buy the practice has been withdrawn.”
    I feel like there’s a trapdoor where my