THREE

THREE

I DON'T FIND LULU on my walk back to the house. But I have to get this court appearance out of the way so I can come back home and keep searching.

"Nobody took her," David reassures me through my earbuds after I suggest the possibility while driving to court. David's on his way to the pub.

"That happens, you know," I say, gripping the steering wheel. "Dogfighters like to use little dogs for practice for the big dogs. They steal them and —"

"Marcie, don't — don't go there. She dug a hole under the fence or slipped through the bars or something. I don't know. She's running around the neighborhood somewhere, and we're gonna find her. I'll get done with this meeting and go back and spend the whole day looking for her if I have to."

I try to let those words calm me, but we both know things are getting worse as every minute passes. And now we're not even out there looking for her. She could be back in our neighborhood, trotting around, tail wagging, looking for us, and we're not there —

I slam on my brakes to avoid the car in front of me, stopping suddenly on 2nd Street. I reach for the horn, but it was my fault, didn't see the red light.

Get a grip, Marcie. Get a grip.

I make it to the courthouse, in the town next to ours, three minutes before the nine thirty call. It's a dumb status hearing on discovery, meaningless. I'd skip it, but Judge Grimsley dismisses any case in which the plaintiff fails to show up for a hearing. This, this I'm doing instead of looking for Lulu.

I reach into my bag for my court ID to skip the line and the metal detector. But it's — it's not there. My ID isn't there. Huh?

I look inside my bag. The ID is always inside the front compartment, attached to a clip for this very reason, so I can't misplace it. But the clip dangles nakedly.

I drop the bag to the floor, squat down, and riffle through the entire bag. My case file, notes, laptop, pens, hand sanitizer, breath mints, lint brush — no court ID.

I grip my hair. What's going on? What circle of hell has engulfed us this morning? The lunch box, the coffeepot, Lulu, now my court ID —

I see my client, a woman named Rina Lorenzo, standing down the hall outside the courtroom. She comes to every hearing, even the meaningless ones. I wave to her as I get in line with the others for the metal detector.

I'm not back in my gray Nissan SUV, heading home, until well after ten.

"I'm driving around 1st Street," David tells me, finished with his supplier at the pub. "Maybe you could look south of the house."

"It's been close to three hours," I say. Our sweet, harmless little dog, who has no clue how to help herself. I check text messages and update my mom chain, saying that no, we still haven't found Lulu; please keep looking. I search through photos of Lulu on my phone, looking for the best one to put on the signs that will go up all over town. Lulu going down the slide with Lincoln, my son clutching the three-month-old puppy in his hand. Lulu in a bath, a puff of soap on her head. Wearing a tiara Grace put on her, her head cocked as she stares at the camera. Numerous closeups that Grace takes all the time around the house. Those big brown eyes, framed by coffee-colored spots, the thin snout with the button nose —

A dull pain in my stomach as I park in the driveway. David pulls his car up alongside mine.

"What a morning," he says when he gets out. "I forgot my inventory list at home. I had to go look it up on my computer at work."

"Tell me about it — I couldn't find my court ID. If I lose that —"

"Your court ID's right there on the dash," he says, pointing inside my car.

"It's — seriously?" I look through the window. Yes, there it is. I let out air. "I'm losing my mind this morning, I swear."

"You're focused on Lulu."

"What if she made it to the forest preserve after all?" I ask. "And she's walking around, so scared, and those coyotes —"

"Hey, hey." David puts his hand on my shoulder. "We can only do what we can do. And that's think and search."

He's right, of course. I lean against the warm SUV. "Okay. Right. Well, what makes the most sense —"

We both hear it — the familiar high-pitched bark. We look at each other, then race to the backyard. Coming up to the fence, from inside the yard, is Lulu, her tail wagging eagerly, her bark more like a whine.

"Oh, my God, honey." I open the gate and squat down, relief flooding through me as Lulu jumps all over me, knocking me back to a seated position.

"What — what the hell happened?" David looks around. "The gate's still closed. How'd she get back in?"

I don't know, and I don't care. Not for now, at least, as Lulu burrows her head in my lap and continues whining.

"Is it possible she was in the yard all along, behind a bush or something?"

I don't know, and I don't care. Then I look up, as Lulu rushes over to David and gives him the same treatment she gave me.

"It's like she never left," I whisper.