Dead End starts pulling again, yanking at my wrist. Mom had known. Right after Lyon and I made our deal, she'd taken the pooch to obedience classes, had transformed him into a good dog that didn't run off. Everyone but Mom saw this as a flat out miracle, but her sixth sense about animals had told her that he'd become a devoted pet. And he had. Devoted to her, mostly. That's why, it seems to me, he's started running again: because she's gone. Our once warm and full home is cold and hollow, with sadness collecting like dust. Not even a day after she'd left us, the pooch started pacing and whining, pawing at the door of the master bedroom. If someone were to ask me, which no one would because I've made it as clear as crystal that I won't talk about her, I'd say Dead End is searching for Mom.
I'd take off, too, even leave Virginia itself, if I could get up the guts to cut away from Lyon and G.D., I've whispered in the dog's ear more than once.