The Moment of Truth. Tara Taylor Quinn
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the animal quiver beneath her touch.
“He’s scared,” Lori said, adjusting the dog in her arms so Dana could get a better look at him.
“And hungry, too, I’d guess,” Dana replied, scratching him lightly under the chin, near the throat. “His back is too bony.”
“Do you think he’s abandoned?”
“He has a collar.”
“I couldn’t read the tag.”
Moving together, Dana and Lori approached the security light and Lori held the dog aloft as Dana studied the tag on his collar.
“He’s had his rabies shot, which means he’s probably at least three months old,” she said. “But there’s no name or ID other than the rabies registration number.”
The dog shivered, and shoved his nose against Dana’s hand. “We can call the vet in the morning and see if we can have this tag traced,” she said, lightly massaging the top of the dog’s head with her fingers. The more good feeling they could bestow on the little guy, the better chance that he’d relax.
She was also checking for mats or scabs or any other sign of disease or abuse.
“He was cowering in the corner over there by the Dumpster,” Lori said, rubbing the dog’s side as she held him. A bit huskier than Dana, Lori took the little guy’s weight with one arm.
“Probably looking for something to eat.”
“I’ve got tuna in my dorm...” Lori’s voice faded away, and Dana remembered overhearing the girl say something about being alone in the cold.
“I’ve got a kitchen full of food at home,” she said quickly. “Why don’t the two of you come with me and we’ll get a better look at this guy while he eats.”
“You live off campus?” Lori’s gaze matched the envious tone in her voice.
“I have a duplex about a mile from here. You can ride with me in my car if you’d like. That way you can hold him. And I’ll bring you back whenever you’re ready. Do you have a curfew?”
From what she’d heard, the dorms at Montford were still old-school—separated by gender and under pretty firm house rules. Dana started slowly walking toward her car.
“It’s not until midnight, and I’m in no hurry to go back.” Still cuddling the puppy, Lori fell into step beside Dana.
“Problems?”
“A roommate who was great until she met some guy that she can’t live without. We have a suite and right now he’s in the living room part of it with her and they’ll do it even if I’m there.”
“I thought the dorms were segregated.”
“They are.”
“So he’s not supposed to be in the room?”
“Right. But if I tell on them, I’ll have made a couple of enemies for life. They don’t care if I’m around so it’s not like I can act all put-out, like they’re keeping me from my room or anything. And I don’t want them to get kicked out of school.”
“Did you know her before you came to school?”
“Yeah. Forever. She’s my best friend. Or she was until she met him. She started drinking with him, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s doing drugs, too.”
“Montford’s not the place to start screwing around with that stuff.” Dana crossed behind the library and headed toward the parking lot in the distance. Her little used Mazda was the only vehicle there. “From what I’ve heard, they’ve got zero tolerance for substance abuse. You’re caught, you’re out.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t stop kids from partying. It goes on even here, trust me,” Lori said. “Kids are more cool about it, and keep it quieter, but college is college, you know? I just never expected Marissa to get into that scene. We were like the nerds in high school because we were the only two in our class who didn’t party. It’s one of the reasons we chose Montford.”
They’d reached Dana’s car. Unlocking the passenger door, she held it open while Lori, puppy in arms, slid inside.
“Where are you from?” she asked the pretty blonde beside her as she started the car.
Dana had always wanted blond hair—naturally blond—instead of the mousy brown she’d been born with. Her younger half sisters both had blond hair. At least she had their blue eyes.
“I’m from Bisbee. It’s a little town in southern Arizona. How about you?”
“I’m from Richmond, Indiana. It’s on the Ohio border.” She gave the dog a reassuring scratch and put the car in gear. “My folks own a small chain of furniture stores there.”
“Indiana is days away from here!” Lori said. “What brought you all the way across the country? You have relatives here?”
“Nope.” Dana shook her head, feeling a tug as her long ponytail caught between her back and the seat. “I’m here on scholarship.”
“What made you apply to Montford?”
It was just talk. A normal conversation between fellow students who’d just rescued a dog.
And it was excruciating as far as Dana was concerned—the explaining, answering to and thinking about her past. Shelter Valley represented a new start for her. A life where she could just be Dana Harris, a person who wasn’t second-best, who didn’t wear Cinderella clothes and live a Cinderella life. A woman who’d accepted a scholarship she hadn’t applied for, to embark on a life she hadn’t planned on, because she hadn’t been able to bear the thought of doing as her father had demanded and marry a man she didn’t love.
But then, Daniel Harris, for whom she’d been named, the man she’d always called “Dad” and thought was her biological father, wasn’t really her father. And no matter how far away she roamed, or how hard she tried to be good enough, that fact was never going to change.
CHAPTER TWO
“YOUR MOM AND DAD are well and send their love.” Sitting in the chair opposite Michelle, a chair identical to hers except for the restraints, Josh looked from the still-beautiful woman to the day’s fresh flowers in the vase on the coffee table directly in front of them. He’d replaced yesterday’s bouquet. Opened the sheers that had been pulled for the night across the window opposite them, giving Michelle a skyline view of the harbor she loved.
He’d turned on the sixty-inch flat-screen television hanging on the wall next to the window. And, when she’d frowned, turned it back off again, although he knew her frown probably had nothing to do with the TV.
Michelle comprehended little, if any, of what went on around her. According to her doctors, frowning—and smiling, too—were simple reflexes that came and went. Sometimes her eyes filled with tears—a physiological reaction to medication, dry eyes or something in the air. Her gaze would land on something sometimes, but there was no connection between visual stimulation and a thought process that would translate the view. Permanent vegetative state was the diagnosis—and it was the same according to all four specialists Josh and her family had called in from around the world to see to her. She couldn’t move of her own volition. Or speak. Or even think.
But somehow she breathed on her own. And as long as that was the case, Josh’s inheritance would be providing for her care. Every dime of it. From a trust account he’d established in her name.
Her parents had more than enough wealth to care for her. Insurance covered basic expenses. But as far as Josh was concerned, his money would be dirty if he spent it on himself.
“I’m going away, Michelle.” He said what he’d come to say. “I’m on my way out of town now.” He’d waited until nightfall so there’d be less traffic.