Page 39

Chapter 1

J anna Welles dashed out of the veterinary clinic and into the hallway of the Chance Animal Shelter’s main building. Dressed in her usual blue scrubs, she was chasing Squeegee, one of the dogs under the clinic’s care. Under her care for now, since she was the only veterinary technician on duty. Hard to tell that the chocolate Labrador retriever mix had a bad leg the way he ran down the hall, although he was limping a bit. Janna thought she had fully closed the door—but apparently not.

“Here, Squeegee,” she called. “Squeegee, sit!”

A couple of men walking down the hall were now just in front of Squeegee. They both turned, and the guy on the right knelt and caught the dog in his arms.

One of the men was Scott Sherridan, the director of the Chance Animal Shelter, but the one who caught Squeegee—

Could that be Nolan Hoffsler?

Surely not…right?

After all, Janna didn’t actually know the world-famous best-selling mystery writer. She’d only seen him interviewed on TV and online about his stories, including his most recent one that she’d read not long ago and really enjoyed.

He was far enough away that she couldn’t really study his face, but he was handsome, with thick, dark hair and eyebrows and a sexy, pleased smile as he continued to hug Squeegee. And he should be pleased, since he had saved the dog from further trouble.

Janna told herself she was imagining things and hurried toward them. So what if it did turn out to be Hoffsler? Never mind that she admired the writer, partly because she aspired to be like him. After all, her passion, when she wasn’t working in one of the veterinary clinics, was writing mysteries. She’d even finished a manuscript. Not that she’d sent it anywhere. Not yet, at least. She was still revising and polishing it.

“Thanks,” she said when she reached them. Scott stood beside the man and dog as Janna knelt to snap a leash on Squeegee’s collar. “He just ran out of the clinic on his bad leg, clearly hurting.”

“Yeah, I noticed he was limping,” the guy said as he rose.

Heck yes, he looked like Nolan Hoffsler. But what would he be doing here?

No, he was probably a guy in trouble seeking asylum here at the Chance Animal Shelter. People were often taken in as supposed staff members and protected even more than the stray animals. His resemblance to the noted author was most likely just Janna’s imagination.

When the men started walking down the hall again, Janna bent to check on Squeegee’s hurt paw. It was bandaged, and she saw no blood. However, now that the dog wasn’t running, he sat with his right front paw held a bit off the floor.

“Come on, boy,” Janna said softly. “Let’s go back into the clinic, and I’ll start working on treating that paw again. We’ll walk slowly.”

At the door to the shelter’s veterinary clinic, she stopped and looked back down the hall. The men were no longer visible. They’d probably gone to Scott’s office. Was Scott about to interview the man?

Well, just in case it was really Nolan Hoffsler, Janna would be sure to contact Scott later that afternoon and warn him about her suspicions, correct or not. If it really was Hoffsler, Scott could make sure the guy didn’t do anything to publicize the Chance Animal Shelter and give away what it really did. The people under protection here could be put in danger by publicity.

Although if he was that novelist and just used the idea behind the shelter and set his story far, far away… Well, Scott should know the possibility, just in case, especially if he didn’t know who Hoffsler was. Assuming it was him.

And if it was—well, she’d love to meet him. Maybe he could give her advice on her writing.

Janna led Squeegee slowly down the main hall of the clinic. She’d check on the other dogs here later. Her own dog, Wizzy, a highly trained Australian shepherd mix, was out on the grounds playing with some of the staff members. She almost always brought him to the shelter with her so he could have company. She’d go visit him soon, too.

For now, she just laughed at herself and her imagination—and silly writing ambition—as she lifted Squeegee carefully and placed him on the examination table. Time to check that paw again.

* * *

Had the woman recognized him? Nolan wondered as Scott led him outside to another concrete building, this one with several floors.

“My office is upstairs,” Scott told him as they entered the lobby. It wasn’t particularly decorative but seemed nice enough. “Let’s go on up.” He pushed a button for an elevator, and one of the cars opened right away.

As they rose to the fourth floor, Nolan pondered the woman. Presumably she was a veterinarian or vet tech since she wore scrubs. She’d looked at him so keenly. Blonde, with green eyes—and a pretty tilt to her head as she seemed to study him.

If she had figured out who he was, so what? His face was out there a lot, after all, on his book covers and in the media as he was frequently interviewed to promote his books. He’d been quite successful, fortunately. At least so far.

But things might be changing now…

No matter. Scott knew who Nolan was and generally why he was there. Nolan was planning on giving him more specifics here in a bit.

As with his stories, Nolan had done his homework. Conducted what research he could to find a place where he would be able to stay as long as his life was in danger by a murderer.

As he always did when he was researching a story—and he never stopped—he observed and memorized his surroundings at Chance Animal Shelter here in Chance, California. Not that he could ever write about this place. He knew that. If it was all he believed it was, any publicity about it could harm the people who sheltered here.

Including, he hoped, himself. Soon. If all went well.

He was glad he’d heard rumors about this place while conducting research.

Scott led them past several offices, most likely belonging to other employees and managers at the shelter. At the end of the hall, he used a card to open the last door. Interesting that Scott didn’t trust his own people enough to keep it open. Was he concerned that some of his staff would sneak up here and go through his things?

Not that there was a lot to go through. Yes, there was a nice-size metal desk with a computer. There were a few chairs. Behind the desk a placard on the wall had the Chance Animal Shelter logo on it, the same as on Scott’s shirt.

“Have a seat.” Scott gestured to the chairs in front of the desk.

Nolan had already studied him a bit, like he did with all people, places and things. Scott had short, dark hair and a bit of facial stubble, and he wore jeans along with his company shirt.

“Thanks,” Nolan said. He sat down and took a deep breath, preparing to talk about stuff he enjoyed writing about—but hated experiencing himself. That was why he was here.

Before he could begin, Scott said, “From the way she reacted, I suspect Janna—our vet tech who recovered the dog—may have recognized you. In case she did, I’ll talk to her later, whether or not we decide you can stay here. Either way, it’s best if she doesn’t mention seeing you, or someone like you.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Nolan agreed. “I’m used to getting recognized, and mostly that’s a good thing. When I’m not in trouble. But now—”

“Now,” Scott said, “let’s talk about why you’re here.”

Okay. Time to face it. Nolan understood this was a place where people in trouble had to be accepted as new residents. If so, they were taken in for their protection. Like them, his life had been threatened.

Damn it. He needed to be accepted here at least until he was safe again.

And so, he took a deep breath and began telling his story, elaborating on the little he’d told Nolan before. It was both simple and complicated. “I travel a lot, but I mostly live in a nice neighborhood in San Diego. I’m generally home a lot—I write there and eat there and so on. But there’s a restaurant I like not far from my home. Oddly, it’s called Great Meals. I wouldn’t say they’re great, but they’re definitely good enough to have lured me back a lot. Plus, I appreciated the owners. They were two friends, and their wives helped out at the place too. But last year—” Nolan hesitated.

Scott chimed in. “I heard about that even before you mentioned it to me. It was in the news a lot. One of the owners was murdered.”

Nolan nodded. “That’s right, Jaxon Draybell.”

“And you told me that, as a mystery writer, you just had to write about it,” Scott continued.

“My most recent novel is based on that particular murder, but I did my own take on it. The co-owner, Declan Andershoot, was the chief suspect, but the evidence wasn’t enough to take him into custody. Now the investigation has been ongoing for over a year. I was kind of hoping my new book, Murder for Dinner , would lead to them figuring out who did it or at least keep investigating it. Both wives, Luisa Draybell and Tanya Andershoot, seemed devastated, although they pretty much run the place now. Declan’s mind was messed up from the trauma of the murder and being a suspect. I can’t say I know him well, but I did believe him innocent, so I had to tell my own version of the story. I made it seem similar but different enough so it wouldn’t appear that I believed I was stating what actually happened. After all, I don’t write nonfiction.”

“So who do you think did it?” Scott asked, clearly curious.

“Not sure,” Nolan admitted. “I went to the restaurant often enough to recognize a lot of other patrons who enjoyed the place too. Sometimes I brought friends, and sometimes I came alone. I noticed now and then when other diners gave the owners some difficulty, but could any of them be the murderer? Who knows—although I did make one of the patrons the killer in my story.” Not that Nolan had any evidence.

But he did have his imagination—and his reputation as a best-selling novelist. Those were good things. But what was bad…

“Interesting,” Scott said, leaning over his desk a bit as he regarded Nolan with apparent interest. “And it makes sense. But you’re here because…”

“Because, well, my book has been out for a couple of months. And once it was published, I started receiving death threats.” Nolan swallowed hard, determined not to mention his fear, and continued, “I tried to ignore them since I sometimes do hear from nutcases who apparently read my mysteries. But…well, a month ago, my home was set on fire. Fortunately I noticed it quickly and called the fire department, who confirmed it had been deliberate. Not much damage was done, and I was fine. But—”

“But?” Scott prompted.

“But last week, as I was walking around my neighborhood, someone shot at me. They missed, but I didn’t see who it was. I called the cops, but they didn’t find anyone. I ignored the death threats, but setting my home on fire? Shooting at me? That I can’t ignore.”

Scott drew a little closer across the desk. “Who do you think it was?”

“I don’t know, but I have to assume it was someone who feels threatened by my version of what happened and is seeking revenge. I can’t stay in my home for now. That’s why I’m here.” Nolan paused, then said, “So can I stay at Chance Animal Shelter under protection for a while?”

“And you won’t write about this place?”

“Absolutely not,” Nolan said. “I could potentially jeopardize all your residents—including myself. Before I left home, I put out word on social media that I was heading to Pennsylvania, where I once lived, to make it as difficult as possible for my stalker to determine I’m here.” He paused. “Assuming you accept me.”

Scott’s momentary silence felt like a slap in the face. Was Nolan about to be rejected?

“We’d have to work things out if you stayed,” Scott finally said. “I assume you’ll want to keep on writing, and that’s fine as long as you bring your own computer. And when you first got in touch with me, you mentioned your need to stay in touch with certain people outside, which makes some sense. So, unlike most of our staff members here, you’d be permitted to communicate with the outside world on a limited basis, like checking your emails and responding to them, but only without indicating where you are or what you’re up to.”

Scott’s intense expression told Nolan he expected a reply.

“No problem with that,” Nolan said quickly. He paused. “I assume that communicating by phone would not be permitted, right?”

“Right, though in limited circumstances, if you need to actually talk to someone, we might be able to work something out—but not by using your own phone where someone might be able to determine your location by its GPS. We’d need to keep it for you, turned off, as you did for this visit.”

“Makes sense,” Nolan responded. “Look, Scott. The idea of being in a place like this is fascinating to me. It’s something I most likely would have never thought of, even with my active imagination. Or I’d have stuck it in a story right away and rescued a whole lot of fictional people that way. But—well, fortunately, in conducting research on a story in the past, I heard how great the animal shelter was, and how nice it was to take in homeless people to care for the animals. But someone in law enforcement I talked to for research, and trust a lot, told me in confidence about some rumors about this place. I came to Chance just in case. And I guess the rumors are correct. I understand the reality. I never figured I’d need this kind of protection, but it’s damned frightening to have someone I can’t even identify threatening me this way—and trying to kill me. Guess I was just lucky, and I want to continue to be that way. I know I may not be the kind of person you really want to have here, but—”

“In some ways, you’re exactly the kind of person we want here.” Scott leaned back in his chair. “And it helps that you seem to be an intelligent guy in more ways than only your writing. If I accept you here, I need to be able to trust you.” He paused, staring right into Nolan’s eyes. “Can I?”

“Hell yeah,” Nolan replied. “I’ve no idea how long I’ll need to stay away from my real life, but the idea is to continue living. So tell me what promises you want from me, and I’ll make them. And if I can’t, I’ll understand if you send me on my way—and I won’t tell anyone about this place, in real life or a book.”

Scott smiled now, and it seemed genuine. “Sounds good. We can talk a lot about what you can and can’t do as time continues. But, Nolan Hoffsler, consider yourself a new staff member at the Chance Animal Shelter. Rather, Joshua—Josh—Forlett, welcome to our shelter. Everyone under protection here gets a new identity.”

Josh Forlett. Nolan committed the name to memory. “Right. I’m Josh for now, and as long as I’m a resident here. Although you indicated I can still keep up my regular contacts by email, yes? I certainly won’t reveal my new location or identity to anyone there.”

“You’ve got it. And now, Josh, I’ll give you the contract you’ll need to sign to make sure you understand what you’re getting into, including your promise of silence about the place. Then I’ll show you to your new apartment, and afterward we’ll go eat dinner in the cafeteria, so you can see how that works, as well as meet some of our managers and other staff members.”

Nolan—Josh—took the contract Scott handed to him and read it carefully. It was important to know the contents of such things. He signed it and handed it back to Scott, who also signed at the bottom. He then handed a copy to Josh.

Josh rose and held out his hand. “Thanks, Scott. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“Just keep all your promises and stay safe here, and that’s thanks enough,” Scott said, shaking his hand.

Josh smiled. Staying safe, and alive, was definitely his goal in coming here.

Copyright ? 2025 by Linda O. Johnston