Chapter 1

Joe sighed, shoving his chair back from his desk. It had been raining all morning, and it didn't look like it was going to stop anytime soon. The light tapping of it on his office window was wholly unwanted and uninvited. Much like the gentleman standing in front of him.

"I'm not just saying it, you've come to the wrong place. I don't do those kinds of things." It came out more of a grunt than Joe intended, as he stood, straightened, and felt a familiar twinge in his hip.

"Please, I swear, I can't-if I don't get help- just tell me the cost—" The stuttering combined with the way the man's hands twisted his baseball hat pricked along Joe's skin. He grimaced.

"Sir, I'm going to just tell you straight, if it's been a month, you probably aren't going to find him. And it certainly isn't worth the money you'd have to pay."

"He brought my boy back to me." – it burst out loud and sudden and for a second Joe wasn't sure it had actually come from the man who'd been practically showing himself out the door for the last five minutes.

"He's-wait. What?"

The man blinked, a little surprised, a little more hope in his grey eyes as he paused his nervous twisting of his hat to clinch his hands together around it. Joe's eyes flicked down to them. They were rough, swollen around the joints. There were scars on them, ranged from white, thin lines to red, blotchy scratches. Some kind of builder, a carpenter maybe, probably having worked for the last twenty years and still working if the recent scars were job-related. Based on the receding hairline, Joe would guess the man to be in his late forties, early fifties. "My boy-he's not-he's had a rough couple of years. Doesn't feel comfortable with much these days." There was a pause as the man swallowed, and shifted away from the doorframe, closer to where Joe stood at his desk.

"Please. I know its nothing, maybe not worth the time or the money. But he helped. He really helped. And we need that."

Joe sighed, and sat back down heavily, pulling himself back behind his desk.

"And this IS a lost dog we're referring to, correct?"

It wasn't that he didn't need the work – things had been quiet on the outskirts of Jupitar. When he'd worked in the city, he'd easily worked 80 hours a week without fail. Now that he had relocated about 100 miles outside of New York City, he was lucky if he worked 80 hours a month.

Nodding, the man gave a half-smile, and pulled a worn wallet from his jeans pocket, flipping through yellowed plastic photo holders placed in the flap of a credit card slot until he paused at one. Pulling out a small, square polaroid, the man carefully placed the photo on the desk in front of Joe.

"He's a lab. Mixed with neighboring farm dog."

The photo was blurred but he could see a young man crouched down, wearing a shirt about two sizes too big, arms wrapped tightly around a serene looking golden dog with ears that seemed a little too small for his head. Studying the young man, Joe noticed the way he held the dog in front of himself, tension in his bent legs, like he wanted to run and hide but anchored himself there for the sake of the photo.

"When was this taken?" Joe grabbed a yellow legal pad from the bottom drawer of his desk, shuffling aside a coffee cup and a couple stray newspaper clippings to clear a space in front of him to take notes.

"About 3 months ago". Anxiety was creeping back into the man's voice and he scratched awkwardly at the salt and pepper whiskers scattered along his chin and upper lip. "I know it's just a dog. But my son, James. He was in the military. When he got back about a year ago, we had to pick him up at the hospital. I didn't recognize him, and he didn't seem to recognize his mom or me either. He had lost so much weight, and he kept running away, every night, for the first two weeks. After about a month of that, we talked to a friend of my father's who had served with the navy. He's the one who recommended a dog—said that when he got home from his first tour, his wife brought him back to his home but his dog helped him stay there. So, we got buddy here."

"Buddy, huh". Joe jotted the name down, circled it. Truth be told, he had no idea how he'd manage to find a dog that had been missing for a month, particularly one he'd seen posters of plastered across every coffeeshop window and drugstore for the last three weeks. But it wasn't like he had to get his paperwork for Higgins done now, he wouldn't need to submit the record of findings for his case until the shoplifter went to court next week. And, it had been a little too long since he had done pro bono work anyway.

It was a weak rationalization, Joe knew, but there was something about the way the dog stood so calmly in the picture, the way the young man looked at the camera without a smile, the way the man in front of him swallowed thickly and gave a suspicious wipe at his eyes, that caught at him.

"Well, tell me a little more about Buddy".

When the clock hit 9:00pm, Joe lifted himself up off his chair, shoved the USB with information on the illusive Buddy into his pocket, and grabbed his jacket. He knew it was too late to help Frank put Pete to bed, but he was still early enough that he should be able to help out if Pete woke up while Frank was in the middle of his case notes.

Working around a six-month-old wasn't easy. Joe had to admit, there were times he missed how things used to be. As he jogged over to his Honda, slinging his scarf around his neck to combat with the November wind cutting across the parking lot, Joe glanced at his phone and saw he had missed a text from Frank. Pausing once he settled behind the wheel, started the engine, and turned on the heat, Joe thumbed open the message.

"Pete's asleep. Come on over, if you have time. Don't worry about it if you're stuck at work."

"Just finishing up. I'll be over in about 10." Joe hit send, slid his car into reverse, and nosed out onto the highway. It helped, working in a building right off the exit going into Jupitar and he'd gotten more customers heading in or out of New York than he thought he would, largely due to the convenient location. It wasn't anything to look at, Joe acknowledged as he circled around the two story office building, but he liked the artist living in the upstairs floor and getting to know the gentle faces of the licensed professional counselors who always waved when they passed his door on their way to their own offices in the shared space.

The drive wasn't long enough, not really, for Joe. It wasn't that he didn't want to see Frank, or take care of Pete if he woke up. It's just that, Joe shook his head at himself, annoyed with himself. It was just that it always hurt, a little, seeing the circles under Frank's eyes, feeling like he could have done more to ease the load. He knew he'd have to see just how tired Frank had gotten over the past couple of days that Joe had been stuck at work late and hadn't had time to swing by Frank's house to help out around the house.

Fighting against closing his eyes, Joe blinked sleepily at the road ahead of him and turned up the radio, thoughts drifting back to "Buddy, the Disappearing Dog" as he was dubbing the case. Not a creative name, but he'd think of something else later. He'd already checked the local humane societies and animal control facilities—he'd even called animal control and shelters in towns as far out as Ridgepark, though he highly doubted the dog would have made it over 100 miles out. He'd try to reach out to a few of his contacts tomorrow, local bartenders, coffee shop owners, people who tended to hear things, but the reality was that there was little he could really do that the owner hadn't done already.

Well. At least I can say that I tried, Joe thought as he craned his neck to the right, feeling it pop with some satisfaction as he pulled into Frank's driveway. He always was a little stiff after these long days at the office, as much as he tried to ignore that fact.

Slipping out his key, Joe walked up the little brick steps leading to the small, two story house. It was a neat little place, with a white picket fence around a small patch of front yard and a rose bush draped around the front door and steps in a way that just begged to be photographed for a Better Homes and Graden's cover.

Out here, off the highway, it was always the good kind of quiet, Joe was reminded, as he heard the cacophony of crickets while he texted Frank a quick, "Here", and slipped as quietly as he could into the living room.

"I'm in the guest room". Frank's raised 'whisper yell', the one he had perfected over the last six months, carried Joe from the living room towards the downstairs bedroom which Frank had converted into an office as soon as he realized he would have to start working from home more often than not.

"Hey". Joe pushed a smile on his face as he stepped into the lowlit room, taking in his brother's tired grin and the coffee cup clenched in his hand. At sight of him, Frank's fingers loosened around his mug, and Joe's smile felt a little more real as he settled himself in an office chair on the opposite side of the desk his brother sat at.

"How'd the champ go down?" Joe kept his voice lowered, glancing over at the baby monitor Frank had set at the end of the desk behind a laptop with a browser opened to "New York State Case Precedents".

"Well. Let's just say that I will never, ever ever, want to hear Pachelbel's Cannon ever again". Frank groaned, putting his head in his hands in mock agony.

"I still can't believe he likes classical music that much. Little traitor – he was supposed to be a fan of the beach boys." Joe said lightly, taking in the way Frank's eyes softened and crinkled at the corners. He didn't look as tired as Joe had anticipated. "So much for all those months I spent crooning "Barbara Anne" to him."

"Crooning? Can anyone croon "Barbara Anne"?".

"Shut up". Joe grabbed a crumpled piece of paper from the oak desk and tossed it in Frank's face. "I can croon whatever I want to croon."

"Okay, well maybe just stop saying croon, how about that?" Frank's lips were curved in the grin that reminded Joe of years of sitting across from him and catching the exact moment Frank realize he had spotted something in a case everyone else was overlooking.

"Okay, okay fine." After a pause, Joe swallowed. "Hey, I'm sorry I haven't been able to be here these last few nights."

Waving a hand in the air, already bent back over his laptop, Frank shook his head. "Don't be. You were fine. I know you've got work to do, bills to pay. I mean, you need some way to fund that addiction to every live-streaming service ever created."

"I'd like to say you're wrong, but then I'd be lying to both of us, and I know too well how that usually plays out." Joe gave a self-deprecating grunt, spinning slightly in the office chair. Frank's eyes darted up to meet his.

"I swear, I didn't mean to tell Mom and Dad that you were the one who'd lost Poky."

"Nope. Nope. We are not rehashing this story again. Once a week is quite enough. May Poky the turtle rest in peace." Rolling his chair a little closer to plant an elbow on the massive oak desk Frank had insisted on buying the day he graduated college, Joe let his smile slip away as Frank chuckled, muttering "Rest in peace."

"How's Callie doing this week?"

The way Frank sighed hollowed out Joe's stomach.

"She's—she's feeling pretty bad. I couldn't stay with her in the hospital while she was getting her treatment because of Pete, but I picked her up-about 6:00 I think? She didn't want to eat anything beforehand, trying to avoid some of the nausea afterwards, but I had to try to get her to eat something before she went down for the night."

Frank shook his head and grimaced, propping his elbow against the desk and resting his chin in his hand, eyes unfocused.

"She threw it all up, everywhere, and Pete, he just started crying and crying, and wouldn't calm down." Joe winced in sympathy.

Raising his eyes to meet Joe, Frank swallowed. "Yeah, I mean, we're used to that by now. But I think I just got freaked out because Pete wouldn't calm down and usually that makes Callie kind of steel up. Tonight though, when Pete was just screaming, Callie didn't insist on walking to the bathroom on her own when she got sick."

"Mm. That's-", The words stuttered around Joe's mouth, and most of them tasted too much like fear. "That's not her-uh—her usual style".

"Mmhm". Frank's eyes were staring vacantly out the window into the night, his face blank. This was always hard, when Frank had to see that even someone as strong as Callie couldn't escape being changed by something like breast cancer. Sometimes it seemed like it wasn't just Callie's body that had undergone surgery – it was her soul, and Frank's too. Maybe even his own, Joe thought, as he nudged Frank's chair under the desk, rocking him a little back and forth on the dark green carpet. He needed to keep Frank present. The past six months had taught him what happened if Frank fell into that lost, silent place he often went to after hard weekends of treatment.

The wry smile he got was something at least. "No, no it's not." Frank blew out another quick breath. "But we'll take her in tomorrow if she isn't feeling better or can't keep enough food down."

"Well, I have to admit," Joe hummed thoughtfully, "if she can keep down your cooking, I would be impressed."

It was a lie, of course, not even a good joke he knew, but Frank rolled his eyes and the smile came back on his face as his eyes lit up. "Oh man, you should have tried the brownies I made yesterday. I've been trying to keep everything really healthy, fruit smoothies and vegetables, for Callie, but yesterday she told me she refused to eat anything until I made her a brownie." Laughter tumbled out and for the first time that night, it didn't sound like it was being squeezed out of him.

Grinning back, Joe raised a brow knowingly. "Oh ho, now that does sound like Callie. And disgusting smoothies sound like you. After that kale incident, can you really blame her?"

"Okay, the kale smoothie might have been going overboard. I've admitted that already! But yeah, I got mad and told Callie she was being too stubborn, and then got Pete into the car and drove off to raid Target for brownie mix. At 6:00 in the morning. In my coat and pajamas. And I couldn't find my shoes so I ran out in my winter boots"

A bark of laughter escaped at the mental image of his 30 year old brother running around the store with a six-month old, his plaid pajamas tucked into boots, which earned Joe a reproving glare from Frank. Slapping a hand dramatically over his mouth to smother the noise, Joe shook his head. "Oh man. If only the 10 year old Joe could have seen you like that. I wouldn't have been half as invested in copying everything you did down to the haircut I mad mom give me. But, come to think of it," Joe cocked his head, "If I hadn't tried to copy you, I probably wouldn't have gotten involved in the case of the missing lemons, which was truly the start of our illustrious career. And what a national tragedy that would have been."

"Well, speaking of our illustrious careers- how was work today? Any new cases?" There was a spark of longing in Frank's eyes that Joe couldn't ignore, and for a moment he was relieved that the only case he had gotten that day was a barely-there case of a missing dog.

"Well, there is one, a real nail-biter."

"Oh?" Raising an eyebrow, Frank leaned forward, twiddling at the edges of his laptop, to stare at Joe with some surprise.

"Yeah. It's a case of a missing…..dog".

"Oh no. Oh Joe. Tell me you didn't."

"Come on, its not like I've been super busy lately, and the guy asking me for help made a good case".

Shaking his head, Frank's lips quirked in amusement. "So essentially he said he missed his dog and you caved. Or am I wrong?"

"Okay, now hold on," Joe reached into his leather messenger bag, pulling out the photo of Buddy and James and sliding it across towards Frank. "That isn't completely accurate. I mean, first of all, it isn't even the man's dog, it's his son's."

"Oh, wow, I'm way off." Frank deadpanned, but Joe shoved the picture further under Frank's nose.

"Really, take a look. His son was in the army and it sounds like he has PTSD or something like that. When he came back, the dog was kinda the only thing that got him to stay put any place. When they went anywhere public, the son, James, would freeze up, become catatonic if it was really noisy or really crowded. Buddy kind of kept him awake in those moments, helped him stay with himself. It's been a year since James got out of the military, and the only time he gets together with anyone his own age is when Buddy's beside him."

Studying the picture intently, tracing a thumb across the dog's ears, Frank nodded. "Okay, so this isn't just someone missing a run-away pet."

"Exactly."

"So what has your approach been?"

Shrugging, Joe twisted his head left to right, looking up at the ceiling, absently noticing that the blue paint on the wall was starting to peel around the windows lining the room. "I mean, beyond the usual, getting in contact with shelters and animal control? Not a lot. The only thing I can think of doing that this guy's father hasn't already done is maybe posting online in a couple of different forums."

"Mm, that might work. Most people are more often online than they are outside anyway."

Nodding thoughtfully, Joe pulled out his laptop from his bag and set it on the desk across from Frank, while Frank turned back to his laptop. Both quietly typed for some time and Joe tried to find different options beyond Facebook and Instagram to post his missing dog information on. There were always some of the news agencies. Most were posting online anyway and Joe had a couple of connections with ones in the Jupitar area.

Right when Joe had finally submitted his final "missing dog" notice to the last online local news agency he could find, a little cry came from the room upstairs. Both Frank and Joe's heads snapped up, and as one they held their breath and listened as if somehow by being extra quiet, they could cox Pete back to sleep.

It was to no avail. The wailing grew steadily louder and Frank sighed.

"He ate just about an hour ago, so he may be wet."

Nodding, Joe stood up and stretched, "The wipes are still on the crate beside his crib, is that right?"

Gratefully shooting Joe a smile, Frank nodded. "And he's still got a little bit of a rash that you'll just need to apply the lotion to. It'll be right next to the wipes."

Leaving Frank to his work, Joe strode as quickly as he could to the small back bedroom. It wasn't more than 20 feet away, so it only took him a moment to be creeping through the darkness of the bedroom towards the crib.

"Hey little guy," Joe whispered, shushing and reaching down to pick up Pete who's face was twisted in miserable distress but who immediately grasped Joe's thumb when his hands reached Pete's chest.

"Alright, alright, there we go." Flicking on the night light shaped like a dolphin to the right of the crib, Joe twisted to the right to place Pete atop the changing table beside the crib, grabbing wipes and lotion from a crate full of what looked like about fifty baby blankets.

Blue eyes squinted up at Joe, screwed up in frustration, and Joe felt the familiar pang of seeing actual baby tears sparkling up at him. It was hard to believe how big Pete was getting sometimes. As Joe changed Pete's diapers with a deftness he would never have believed possible a year ago, he smiled down at Pete, who evidently appreciated the dry feel of his new diaper and was contentedly staring up at him, eyes getting heavy again with sleep.

"There you go." Joe cradled his nephew to him for a moment, then slowly bent down and lowered him into the crib. A sleepy grunt issued from Pete, but no cries followed, to Joe's great relief. Compared to a lot of other kids, Pete was a pretty good sleeper, according to Joe's mother, but Joe had had too many night of lying awake while Frank and Callie tried fruitlessly to get Pete settled.

As Joe tip-toed out of the room and shut the door once more, he felt a small buzz in his back pocket. Shushing furiously at his phone, which always seemed to vibrate at a volume only Pete could hear, Joe pressed on his display to shut his notification down.

Nancy Drew

The name stared up at him from his phone. It wasn't like they never talked anymore-with Nancy moving to Pennsylvania and writing occasional stories for "Crime Reports and Investigations", they had had enough in common to stay in contact. But what caught Joe was the bit of text he could make out on the message he had just gotten. "So I might be crazy, but I think I found your dog."