Unleashed (A Sydney Rye Novel, # 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

whose insides were spread across the whole road, and there was nothing I could do but run over his fucking intestines. The doorman from the nearest building who’d responded to my screaming was chattering at me. There was blood on my hand, drying in the creases of my palm. And I just kept thinking about that poor cat.
    The sound of clopping hooves preceded two mounted police officers rounding the corner. Toby shifted nervously and the doorman waved them over, desperately pointing to the alley. They stopped in front of us. Squinting against the sun, I looked up at the one closer to me. The light bounced off his helmet and badge.
    “Hello,” I said.
    “Hi,” he said back and removed his sunglasses. His eyes looked like the ocean in those ads on the subway for tropical vacations. His partner was talking to the doorman, who was shaking his head in a grotesque imitation of Toby’s show with the mess of black hair. It turned out to be a toupee. I felt bile rise up in my throat. “I'm Officer O’Conner and that’s my partner, Officer Doyle. Can you tell me what the problem is?” he asked.
    “There’s a dead body in the alley,” I said, nodding toward the body. As Officer O’Conner climbed off his horse, the smell of leather wafted toward me. He entered the alley.
    Officer Doyle dismounted and came over to where I stood. He asked me if I was alright. Doyle looked to be about 30. He had dark brown eyes and a nose that angled left. I nodded.
    Officer O’Conner motioned from the mouth of the alley, and Doyle headed over to him. I examined the cracked brown tracks on my thigh. I thought about the dripping hair in Toby’s mouth. The memory of that thing touching my leg as I pulled Toby out of the alley and back to the sanity of the street lurched up at me.
    Sirens wailed and two patrol cars pulled up next to the horses. Officer Doyle explained that he would need a statement and to collect some evidence from me. I nodded. He went away and came back with a woman who was holding a camera and yelling at a young guy with glasses and adolescent acne to hurry up. She started snapping pictures of me and pulled my hands toward her. “Stay still,” she commanded. Her assistant, his hands in tight latex gloves, scraped some of the dried blood from my legs into a plastic bag. Then the woman took Toby’s leash from me.
    “Hey,” I said, but she ignored me. Her assistant smiled apologetically. His bone-white hands started on Toby’s fur, trying to get the congealed blood into a bag while his boss’s camera clicked away. He took off Toby’s leash and collar. Doyle brought him a piece of rope, and they tied it around Toby’s neck.
    “OK, we’re done here.” The woman strode away, and her assistant hurried after her.
    “Why don’t you come with me?” Doyle said as I watched the photographer turn into the ally. Doyle pointed toward the end of the block. The light from a camera flash shot out of the alley as Doyle lead me away. I gripped the rope attached to Toby. The officer showed me around the corner and into the lobby of an apartment building.
    Doyle spoke to a woman behind a large marble block that served as the front desk of the building. She turned and looked at me. Her eyes were a deep, warm brown and she’d painted her lashes thick with mascara. She clucked a couple of times and then took my arm. I handed Doyle Toby’s rope and followed the woman into a small bathroom.
    She turned on the tap. “Come on dear,” she said, and gently pulled my hands toward the sink. The water spiraling down the drain turned from pink to clear. The woman wet a paper towel with warm water and handed it to me. I turned to my reflection.
    I hardly recognized myself. Who was that thin, haggard woman in the mirror? When did I become this person? Did I ever brush my hair? Tears started down my cheeks, and I watched them as if the mirror was a TV screen—a big reflection of someone else’s fantasy.
    “Sweetheart?” it was Eyelashes