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torturing Jasper, and sort of entertained by the idea of being irresponsible. That is one thing I’m not. I’ve never been reckless.
    If I had a tattoo like Gavin Slater’s, it would say responsible .
    The woman on the other end of the phone is not placated and I doubt my snort helped.
    “Let me put it this way: are you in the city?”
    “In Midtown.”
    “You’ve got one hour to get here or I am going to call animal services.” The line clicks. She’s hung up on me.
    I move from my cubicle to Dan’s office, hanging in the doorframe while he wraps up his own call.
    “How’d you do?” he asks, smiling. “Not too hard, is it?”
    I shake my head. “Not too hard, though I’m going to need hardship pay for having to listen to all that hold music.” I hastily show him the files and talk him through a spreadsheet of expenses. Aware of the minutes ticking down, I get to the last line item.
    “Dog boarding,” I say. “You know what that means?”
    “Ten percent,” Dan quips. That’s our standard up-charge for handling people’s lives. “But you look worried. And I didn’t know he had a dog.”
    “I think he left his dog the same way he left his apartment.” I say. “And now the boarding place is kicking the dog out and I have to go get him,” I glance at the clock in Dan’s office, “in fifty-two minutes.”
    “And do what with him?”
    “That’s what I want to ask you. I could take him to another boarding place.”
    “Good luck with that.” Dan frowns. “In Manhattan, kennels have long waiting lists. Most of our clients use house sitters, who take care of the pets and plants and deliveries while the residents are out of town.”
    “So what do I do with the dog? Hire a house sitter?”
    Dan raises his eyebrows. “Now, there’s an idea.”
    “I don’t see how we can get one in an hour.”
    “I do.” He looks at me. “We already have one. You. You’re bonded through our company and doing the rest of his property management. We’ll send Gavin a message about the dog and the new arrangement, and if he doesn’t like it, we’ll switch things up. Remember, Beryl, extra mile.”
    The ease with which Dan makes this decision alarms me. He’s so fluid in the way he handles problems, I admire it.
    I can’t do that. I fret.
    Dan pulls out the keys to Gavin Slater’s apartment and drops them in my palm. “I think we’ve killed two birds with one stone. Now you’ve got a safe place to stay—at least for a while—and Gavin’s got a house sitter. I’ve been meaning to expand Keystone’s business to include specialty services like this.”
    I still look skeptical, worry wrinkling my face.
    “Beryl. It’ll be fine. Lighten up.” Dan grins again and his optimism is contagious. I grab my messenger bag and head out to the street, bound for Barks in the Park.

CHAPTER EIGHT

    Huge glass windows showcase what feels like hundreds of dogs, bouncing, sniffing, barking and playing. Barks in the Park has an indoor-outdoor setup, with mutts roaming freely from a fenced outdoor play space to an indoor area behind a high counter. I open the door and a bell rings, setting off waves of excited barking.
    A woman in a denim shirt with rolled sleeves and hipster glasses approaches the counter. “I’m here to pick up a dog,” I say, and she doesn’t blink.
    I struggle to remember the dog’s name. “Jasper?”
    “You made it.” Her eyes narrow and she stares at me as if I spent my morning tormenting puppies.
    I give her a company check for the jaw-dropping boarding fee. She scowls and gets a form from her file for me to sign.
    “Jasper!” she calls, and a half-dozen dogs come. I wonder who it will be—the black standard poodle? The glossy golden retriever? I pray it won’t be the tiny toy Chihuahua—it would be too embarrassing walking that dog and picking up its crap with a tissue.
    Angry Dog Lady reaches into the pack and retrieves an auburn-and-white dog with triangular ears that stick straight