into something resembling pity.
“Grief makes people do stupid things,” he said quietly. He took a heavy, deliberate step toward me. “But a dog doesn’t understand grief. A dog only understands that her pack is gone, and she’s sleeping on cold concrete surrounded by the smell of fear.”
I flinched as if he had struck me. He was right. I had failed Carol, and I had failed the one creature who loved her as much as I did.
“Please,” I begged, taking a step forward. “I was wrong. I was so incredibly wrong. Let me take her home. I’ll pay whatever you want. Just let me make it right.”
The big man stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. He looked at Pepper, giving her a gentle scratch behind her good ear. Then, slowly, he extended his massive, tattooed arms, offering the dog to me.
I closed the distance
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