My Fiancé Fed Her My Dog Chapter 2

For a long time, Justin was the only other person who had a key to my apartment.

When I went on a two-week business trip six months ago, I gave him my spare so he could check on Winston, my Bichon Frise.

But when I came back, the apartment was silent. The only thing left of my dog was his favorite squeaky yellow duck, sitting lonely on the living room rug.

Justin had stammered through an explanation. He claimed Winston had slipped past his legs when he opened the front door, running off into the night. He said he had searched the neighborhood for hours but couldn't find him.

During those weeks, I nearly lost my mind. I printed hundreds of flyers, plastered them on every lamppost, and spent my nights wandering the dark streets, calling Winston's name until my throat was raw.

My grief had blinded me. I never noticed the gaps in his story.

Until tonight.

Earlier in the evening, Bridget had casually mentioned how much she loved exotic game. Then, wrinkling her nose, she added, "It's a shame most dog meat is so tough. You really need one that's been pampered and fed high-quality kibble to get that tender, savory flavor."

At that moment, a jagged line of suspicion began to connect in my mind.

As the night wore on and the drinks kept flowing, their filters crumbled.

When I finally asked the question I had buried deep in my chest, I felt the sudden, rigid tension in Justin's posture.

Now, the room was in chaos. They scrambled to lift Bridget, rushing her out the door. Someone shoved me hard in the rush, sending me stumbling back against the wall.

Even as the wailing of the ambulance faded into the distance, Justin never answered me.

But the silence was its own confession.

Winston. My sweet, gentle Winston.

Had Justin deliberately handed him over to Bridget to be slaughtered?