“That’s strange.” Praying the acepromazine was still working its magic, I followed her from the elevator into the country-style kitchen. An island stood tall beneath a brass rack of pots and pans. A built-in knife set bristled on one end of the fixture, while a dense, reddish wood served as a cutting board on the other. “Smells good,” I whispered. My nose was picking up the lingering aromas of beef and onions and herbs. “Supper’s in the Crock-Pot. You two can join me if you’d like.” Freddy’s eyes snapped up. “No,” I said. “We should go.” “Where are those silly dogs?” A huge living room opened before us, with windows stretching from floor to vaulted ceiling. Notched into the front end, the entryway was the size of a small bedroom and included wide stairs that spiraled upward. The slumbering bull mastiffs covered the floorboards at the foot of the staircase, eyes half open, jaws slack. Trish said, “That sunshine must’ve zapped them good.” “Don’t disturb your babies,”
