Chapter 3

Last time, I'd tried to appease Old John. I'd let Thunder stay.

The bites started within a week. Small nips at first, when I wasn't looking. Then deeper. Three times in one month, he drew blood.

I showed Mark the wounds. "We need to send him to a trainer, Mark. Or... or get rid of him."

Old John overheard. "He don't bite nobody else, Isabella. Just you. What are you doin' to him behind our backs, huh? You try to send my dog away, and I'm leaving too. See how Mark likes that."

Mark, ever the peacemaker, wrung his hands. "Maybe it's your perfume, Izzy? Or... or maybe we should get him neutered? I heard that calms dogs down. Those training schools... they can be brutal."

I stopped wearing perfume. I agreed to the neutering. Anything.

The day of the vet appointment, Thunder vanished.

We searched the house, calling his name.

Then we heard Sophia. A shriek of pure terror.

I found her in her room. Blood. So much blood.

Her face... half of it was gone. Mangled. Flesh hanging in ribbons.

The taxi ride to the hospital was a nightmare. Every bump, I thought the pieces of her cheek would fall off.

She was too young for general anesthesia. They had to stitch her up while she was awake.

Her screams echoed in the emergency room. Nurses cried. I held her hand, my own body numb with a pain far greater than any dog bite.

When we got home, I called an animal shelter with a no-questions-asked euthanasia policy. They agreed to send someone for Thunder.

Old John, surprisingly, offered to take him. "I'll make sure he gets there," he'd said, his face a mask of concern.

He never made it. The shelter called. Old John had stopped for a bathroom break, he claimed. Thunder had somehow unlatched his cage and run off.

It felt wrong. Too convenient.

That night, after Sophia finally cried herself to sleep, I pulled up the security camera footage. We had small cams around the house, mostly for Sophia.

I saw Old John, just before he left with Thunder. He was crouched by the dog's cage.

"That bitch Isabella wants to get you fixed," he'd whispered to Thunder. "You won't be a real dog anymore. She's doing it to spite you, boy. I'd keep you, but... if it wasn't for that little brat in the bed, I'd take you right back to the farm."

He was pointing towards Sophia's room.

My blood ran cold.

I scrolled back further. Hours. Days.

Then I saw it.

Footage from a few nights before Sophia was attacked.

Old John, creeping into Sophia's room.

He fumbled with the camera, covering the lens with something. His underwear.

Then the lens was clear again.

He was standing over her crib, his pants around his ankles.

His... his filth, landing on her baby blanket.

I threw up until my stomach was empty, then dry-heaved until tears streamed down my face.

I showed Mark the footage. For once, he didn't make excuses for his father. He looked like he was going to be sick.

We divorced. He gave me the house, the car, everything. He was consumed by guilt.

I couldn't stay in that house. I put it on the market and moved with Sophia into my mother's old place, a small, somewhat isolated cottage on the outskirts of town. My sister, Emily, who ran a small pet boarding kennel nearby, helped me.

Two months later, Sophia was released from the hospital. Her smile was back, but her face...

On the drive to the cottage, I kept looking at her in the rearview mirror, my heart aching.

We pulled up. I carried her to the door.

As I turned the key, Thunder exploded from the bushes.

He knocked me down, his teeth snapping. My leg. Agony.

He dragged me, dragged Sophia, inside.

My mother... she was already on the floor. A pool of blood spreading around her.

I tried to scream.

Thunder, impossibly, slammed the door shut with his body and nudged the deadbolt with his nose.

Then he turned towards Sophia.

Now, in this new chance, I knew what I was dealing with.

I quit my part-time job at the library the next day. Sophia was my only priority.

And I started making plans.

My mother's old cottage. It was still mine, empty.

I drove out there and installed new, high-definition, motion-activated cameras. Hidden. Everywhere.

A week later, I checked the footage.

Late at night, a familiar truck. Old John.

He had Thunder on a leash. He walked him around the cottage, letting him sniff the porch, the doors, the windows.

Then he stood by the front door, pointing, whispering to the dog. Giving commands.

He was training Thunder. For me. For Sophia.

Just like before.

But this time, I was ready.