Victor's photograph lay inside a clear evidence sleeve on Daniel's desk.
Sarah had not wanted to touch it.
She had seen enough strange photographs in the past twenty-four hours to know that every new image seemed to create more questions than answers.
Still, she picked it up.
The picture showed Cooper as a young dog.
He stood behind a fence.
His body was thinner, his ears shorter, and his face still carried the softness of a puppy.
Beside him was another golden dog.
A female.
Sarah recognized her immediately.
“That's Daisy.”
Daniel looked at her.
“You know her?”
“She was Cooper's mother.”
The words came out quietly.
Sarah had adopted Cooper at ten months old.
The rescue had told her his mother had been transferred elsewhere.
No photograph had ever been provided.
No one had known where she went.
Sarah had spent years believing that was simply another sad detail of rescue work.
Now Daisy was standing beside Cooper in a photograph marked East Creek.
Daniel examined the image.
“There are three dogs.”
Sarah looked closer.
Behind Daisy was a small cream-colored puppy.
Not Milo.
The markings were different.
But the puppy's face was familiar.
“That's another one.”
Daniel nodded.
“His name was Toby.”
“What happened to him?”
“That's what we're trying to determine.”
Sarah sat down.
The photograph was dated five years earlier.
Cooper had been a puppy.
Daisy was an adult.
Toby was tiny.
And behind them was a painted metal gate marked with the same red circle.
Seven.
Sarah felt sick.
“Why was Cooper sent there?”
Daniel opened the original rescue records.
“He wasn't sent there voluntarily.”
“Dogs don't volunteer.”
Daniel almost smiled.
“Fair point.”
He explained that the rescue organization had contracted with a private transport company to move several animals between shelters.
Cooper had been listed for transfer.
Daisy had been listed as medical hold.
Toby had been listed as temporary boarding.
None of the three appeared in the final receiving records.
“They disappeared from the paperwork.”
Sarah stared at him.
“And then Cooper ended up with me.”
“Yes.”
“Daisy?”
“Unknown.”
“Toby?”
“Unknown.”
Sarah looked toward the vehicle.
Milo was still inside.
She whispered, “Then who is he?”
Daniel shook his head.
“We don't know.”
Milo's small face appeared through the glass.
Cooper walked toward him.
Sarah followed.
She opened the vehicle door.
Milo immediately stretched toward Cooper.
Cooper lowered his head.
Milo licked his chin.
Sarah watched them carefully.
There was no fear between them.
Only familiarity.
She touched Milo's collar.
It was plain.
No tag.
No number.
But beneath the buckle was a tiny stitched piece of fabric.
Blue.
Sarah recognized it.
“Daniel.”
He came closer.
She pointed.
The fabric carried a faded red circle.
And beneath it, the number seven.
Daniel closed his eyes.
“That shouldn't be there.”
Sarah pulled her hand away.
“What does seven mean?”
“We still don't know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because every answer leads to another missing record.”
Sarah looked at him.
“Then stop looking at the records.”
“What?”
“Look at the dogs.”
Daniel frowned.
Sarah crouched.
Cooper was lying beside Milo's crate.
Milo had pushed his tiny paw through the opening.
Cooper's paw rested against it.
Sarah watched their feet.
Then she noticed something.
Cooper had a small scar on the inside of his left paw.
The same location where the old photograph showed a mark.
She examined Milo.
There was a matching scar.
Not identical.
But close.
Sarah stood.
“Take them to the examination room.”
Daniel hesitated.
“Why?”
“I want to compare their markings.”
They brought both dogs inside.
The examination room was empty.
Sarah gently examined Cooper's shoulder.
There was the old scar.
Then she examined Milo.
A faint line crossed the puppy's shoulder.
Sarah's breathing slowed.
“Those are restraint marks.”
Daniel stared.
“Maybe.”
“No.”
She pointed.
“They're too symmetrical.”
Daniel examined them.
“You're right.”
The scars were old.
Not recent injuries.
They were the kind of marks that could come from repeated contact with a narrow harness.
Sarah looked at Cooper.
Then Milo.
“Someone handled them the same way.”
Daniel took photographs.
He searched the old veterinary records.
Cooper's early medical file contained a note about “minor abrasions from transport.”
Milo's recent file contained a similar note.
“Possible restraint irritation.”
Sarah read both.
The language was almost identical.
“Someone used the same equipment.”
Daniel nodded.
The room became very quiet.
Milo suddenly began scratching at the floor.
Sarah looked down.
The puppy's paw stopped at a loose tile.
He scratched again.
Cooper immediately joined him.
Together they pawed at the same spot.
Daniel crouched.
“There's something underneath.”
He lifted the tile.
Beneath it was a narrow metal tag.
Sarah picked it up.
The number was seven.
On the back was a date.
Five years earlier.
The same year Cooper had disappeared from the records.
Daniel stared at it.
“This room was renovated three years ago.”
“Then why is this here?”
“I don't know.”
Sarah turned the tag over.
There was another marking.
A tiny letter.
B.
She looked at Milo.
Then Cooper.
“B for what?”
Daniel said nothing.
Sarah suddenly remembered the puppy photograph.
The one dated three years ago.
The puppy beside Cooper had been marked with a small blue ribbon.
The ribbon had carried a letter.
B.
She searched the evidence photographs.
There it was.
The same symbol.
B.
Sarah felt a terrible realization beginning to form.
“Milo may not be the puppy from the old photograph.”
Daniel looked at her.
“But he could be related.”
“Or he could have been given the same marking.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever used these records wasn't tracking individual dogs.”
She held up the metal tag.
“They were tracking groups.”
Daniel looked toward Cooper.
“Groups of dogs?”
“Families.”
The word hung between them.
Sarah's eyes filled.
“If Cooper's mother was Daisy, and Toby was another puppy, then Milo could belong to the same line.”
Daniel nodded slowly.
“Which means someone may have been collecting related animals.”
“Why?”
Before Daniel could answer, the clinic lights flickered.
Then went out.
Milo yelped.
Cooper immediately stood over him.
Emergency lights came on.
A staff member shouted from the hallway.
“The back door is open!”
Daniel ran.
Sarah stayed with the dogs.
She heard footsteps.
Then silence.
When Daniel returned, his face was pale.
“The files are gone.”
“What files?”
“The East Creek records.”
Sarah looked at the metal tag in her hand.
She understood.
Someone knew they had found the connection.
Cooper stood beside Milo.
His body was rigid.
Sarah clipped a leash to his collar.
“We're leaving.”
Daniel nodded.
“Where?”
“Somewhere safe.”
But as they reached the parking lot, Sarah saw a note tucked beneath her windshield wiper.
She unfolded it.
Only one sentence had been written.
“Ask Cooper where Daisy went.”
Sarah looked at her dog.
Cooper was staring at the road.
And for the first time, Sarah wondered whether the dog who had spent years following her might have been waiting all along for someone to follow him.
Click Here to continue read next: PART4: Cooper Led Sarah Beyond the Rescue Records and Toward an Abandoned Facility Where One Hidden Room Could Explain Why the Dogs Were Taken
The Moment Sarah Handed Over the Leash, the Golden Dog Looked Up at Her as Though He Already Knew Something Was Wrong
Part 3 of 16
