She dropped the knife as she fell—it skidded toward the kitchen door leading into the living room and front door. Beatrice ran to grab it but knew that there were plenty of other potential weapons in her kitchen—she needed to get out of the house. Where were her keys? Phyllis groaned in the kitchen and Beatrice shot a harried glance her way . . . and saw her struggling to her knees. Beatrice spun around frantically. Her keys? Where were they? Finally, shaking, she spotted them on a table near the front door, partially obscured by the Dappled Hills newspaper. She grabbed them, fumbled them, grabbed them again as Phyllis rose to her feet and staggered her way. Both dogs were barking outside the front door. Beatrice yanked the door open and they bolted inside, spotted Phyllis, and started snarling at her. “Come on, guys,” called Beatrice, “let’s go for a ride.” But the dogs wouldn’t budge. All the calling, all the begging, all the promises of treats wouldn’t move them.
