Inhospitable Place - 1. Chapter 1

“I’m looking at you. But you don’t see me. That’s okay.

By the time you notice me watching you, it will be too late.”

The October rain gently tapping on the window and the roof was finally slowing to a drizzle. The rain in Connecticut was different than Pennsylvania rain—it was colder…harsher somehow. That was one of many things on my list of grievances against Hartford, and by default against Hunter, who came up with the idea to move here. It’s not that it was his fault. He thought he was doing the right thing by getting me away from everything that was familiar. He probably imagined he was giving me—us—a brand new start. But no matter how hard I tried, the bile of resentment would creep up my throat, willing me to remind him every now and then that the road to hell was paved with good intentions.

I didn’t have a personal vendetta against the city. Had I come here under different circumstances, I probably would have appreciated the historic buildings, and bored my family and friends to death with anecdotes about Bushnell park being the oldest park in the country, and how I visited Mark Twain’s House. Instead, I came to Hartford numbed by Xanax, Prozac, and a bottle of wine. Nothing could have impressed me. Everything was a cruel reminder that the world didn’t come to a grinding halt when my mother died. It just kept going. And now I was supposed to keep going with it.

A part of me felt sorry for Hunter. He met me two months before my mother suddenly passed away from a massive brain aneurysm. The person he met, the person he fell in love with, that person no longer existed. I was a professional ballroom dancer and a choreographer for a popular TV show. I had a life, I had friends, and a bustling career. I had a body that was sculpted by long hours of dancing and a fridge that contained celery juice and oat milk. I was full of energy and couldn't wait to see what every day had to bring. That all changed overnight. A career doesn't wait for you; there's an appropriate grieving window and then it's back to business as usual. But I couldn't bear it. As hard as I would try, I just couldn't find my footing without her.

After a while I had no job, and my friends had given up on me. All I had left was my sister, Francesca, my dad, Randy, and my boyfriend, Hunter, who somehow stuck around through it all. When he first suggested the move to Hartford, I was opposed to it. After all, why would I move away from the only close family I had left? But everything at home was a constant reminder of what I no longer had. Her books, her comforter, her perfume—it was unbearable. So after a week of debating, I said yes and—despite the protests from my sister and father—we packed up our stuff and left for Connecticut.

The drive to our new home took 7 1/2 hours from Pittsburgh. Since I no longer had a job it was down to Hunter to find us a place to live on his loan officer salary. We moved into a 2-bedroom loft—exposed brick industrial design. One bedroom was ours, the other was my designated new studio where I was supposed to recapture my love for dancing. I told Hunter I was practicing daily. That was a lie. Nothing changed for me; nothing except my surroundings.

I stood in the empty studio looking out of the window and watching the rain. I turned my head back when I heard Bruno waddling over. My only source of joy these days. He was a fluffy overweight Corgi whose owners had given him up to the local high kill animal shelter when they moved. One day, while I was struggling to stay sober and fighting dark thoughts of ending it once and for all, I decided to go on a walk. It was another rainy day, just like today. I almost passed by the shelter, but the howling from the inside made me suddenly stop. Something had beckoned me to go inside that day. A gut feeling. I walked from cage to cage, shivering under my wet jacket. The sad looking furry faces staring back at me shivered as well. The place was freezing, and the smell of ammonia and fear wafted through the air.

“Can I help you?” a middle age curly haired woman asked, popping her head out from behind an office door. Her name tag read Tatiana.

“I’m just looking around,” I replied. She sighed, obviously displeased at my window-shopping approach to animals in need. I felt embarrassed.

“I’m not supposed to tell you, but the three at the end are getting euthanized this Friday. In case you feel like saving a life,” she said in a harsh, condescending tone, then disappeared behind the door once again.

“Well no wonder you have to euthanize dogs, who’d want to get one from you,” I muttered to myself. I thought about leaving, but it felt disrespectful to not even take a look at the three death row mutts. They deserved my attention, at least. I walked down the dim lit hallway to the end of the chain link fence enclosures. The first one was a Pitbull that launched at the fence with the speed of light, making me stagger back. “I’m DANGEROUS, do not put hands near the fence!” the description tag on his door read.

“Sorry buddy,” I said in the midst of his barking, “Hope it's better in the next life for you.” I moved to the next cage, where a big Husky mix snarled upon seeing me. His name was “Diamond”.

“Don't worry, you'll be someone's gem in dog heaven,” I told him, then slowly moved onto the last cage. “Bruno,” the name tag read, along with, “I’m feisty, don’t put hands near the fence!”

Bruno was the fattest Corgi I've ever seen. He laid there on the concrete slab, behind the chain link fence, looking completely devoid of life. He didn't even bother to bark at me.

“Bruno,” I said, trying to find the right last words. His eyes slowly moved to meet mine, then he looked back down and gently put his head on his paws. He had given up. Like he knew what was coming next. For a brief moment I wondered if that's what I looked like to people as well. A man who had given up on life.

After I left the shelter, I cried all the way home. Life seemed so cruel and unfair. A healthy woman with two children drops dead in the middle of the day, out of nowhere and without any warning. A dog who loves snacks gets left at a strange place and locked in a small wet cage where he now awaits his death.

Hunter was waiting for me at home.

“Where have you been?” he asked. It must have been curious to him, since I almost never left our place anymore.

“I went on a walk,” I replied, grabbing a towel from the bathroom. I was soaked.

“Do we not have an umbrella?” he asked, turning the heater on.

“We do, I just wasn’t thinking,” I replied. Poor Hunter, he had to constantly worry about me.

“Did you see anything good on your walk?” I sighed, then told him my shelter story.

“Do you think they give them like…a last meal? Like maybe his favorite snack?” I asked concerned, and he raised his eyebrow.

“Uhh, they’re dogs, not death row inmates. I doubt they get a steak for their last meal,” he replied truthfully. “But I’m sure it’s quick and painless. Better than spending the rest of their lives in a small cage. Imagine the horror of that,” he added, his face suddenly stone serious.

“What day is it today?” I asked.

“Wednesday,” he replied, shaking himself out of his dark thoughts. “Don’t even think about it. Our building has a no-pet policy,” he said, then added, “I’ll probably be home late tomorrow, just so you know. I’m behind on a few things.”

“No worries. And I wasn’t thinking about it,” I lied, thinking of the big Corgi and how he only had one more day to live. I wondered how he’d spend it. Probably cooped up in that cold, wet cage. The thought made me sick to my stomach.

The next morning I woke up with the sun, which was rare for me. Sleeping until the afternoon was more the norm nowadays. Hunter had already left, and I was feeling restless. I cleaned the kitchen, scrubbed the bathroom, washed the dishes. Finally, I grabbed a load of dirty clothes and went downstairs to the building’s laundry room.

“Hello,” the warm voice from behind me said as I was pouring my detergent into the washer. I looked back and recognized my next-door neighbor. “I’m Derek,” he said, as if we never met. I suppose he had forgotten me, I rarely ever went out.

“I know, I remember you. I’m Louis,” I replied. He was wearing grey sweatpants and a fitting blue tee. If I wasn’t in a relationship, and on the brink of suicide, I probably would have felt quite giddy to be speaking to him.

“That’s right,” he said, putting his laundry basket down. “You guys are from out of state, right?”

“Right, Pennsylvania.”

“How are you liking Hartford?” he asked, taking over the other machine.

“Well, it’s nice. Lots of rain,” I replied, not knowing what to say. I haven’t really stepped foot out of the apartment since we moved. I didn't have much to say about Hartford.

“Right, right. I don't mean to sound strange, but your face is so familiar…” he trailed off.

“I was a choreographer for a TV show,” I explained, and everything clicked into place for him.

“Yes, that’s it!” he said snapping his fingers excitedly. And I laughed for the first time in months. “What happened man? You were so great at that.”

“My mother passed away,” I replied bluntly. His brown eyes looked at me with sad warmth.

“That is tough. How are you doing?” he asked.

“Doing alright,” I lied. “Or I was. But then I saw these dogs at the shelter yesterday, and now I’m all messed up about it. It’s dumb but, there was a Corgi and they’re putting him down tomorrow. And it’s just sad,” I rambled on, then stopped, embarrassed. He raised an eyebrow.

“The local shelter?” I nodded my head. “What's preventing you from getting him?” he asked, starting his load while I was still putting my clothes in.

“Well for one, this place doesn't allow pets,” I said.

“You know what my mother always says?” he asked.

“What’s that?”

“Rules are meant to be broken,” he replied. He grabbed his bin and gave me a smile, then disappeared just as fast as he came.

Strange. I thought about our encounter for the rest of the day. But how could I take care of a dog, when I couldn’t even look after myself anymore. It was months since I ate a vegetable. I went for days without showering. Dogs needed consistency, routine, rules. Plus, Hunter wouldn’t be happy, even if we could somehow convince the landlord to let us have a dog in the first place.

At 10:00 o'clock I popped a Xanax, followed it up with some wine, and went to sleep. I dreamt of Bruno, alone in his kennel. Cold and hungry.

When I woke up, Hunter was already gone. I looked at the clock. 11:45. Today was his last day. What would they feed him? Would he be scared? Would he yelp in pain when the needle pierced his skin? I felt anger rise up in me. He was a perfectly healthy dog, why should he have to die in that place? Just because someone deemed him “feisty”. Why should he be nice to people when this is what they’ve done to him? The expectation was ridiculous. He had every right to be angry. Disenchanted. “Feisty”. I put on a hoodie, grabbed a bag of leftover rotisserie chicken and ran out the door. Maybe I could at least be there for him. Maybe he liked rotisserie chicken.

I finally made it to the shelter and almost ran Tatiana into the ground.

“What in the hell!” she grimaced, pushing me back with her bony hands. I tried to catch my breath and realized I was completely out of shape.

“Have the…have the dogs been… been euthanized yet?” I asked. She stared at me in confusion. “The three dogs,” I tried to make her understand.

“Oh, yes, at 11:00 this morning,” she replied, raising an eyebrow at the bag of chicken in my hand.

“How…how did it happen?” I asked. She sighed.

“Well, first we took them out of the kennel on a leash. They thought they were going for a walk. They started wagging their tails. But as soon as we got close to the euthanasia room, they knew something was up. They must have sensed the smell of death in the air. So, they put up a fight,” she said, matter-of-factly, then continued. “They had to be restrained until the vet injected a lethal dose that put them out. Then, they were put into black plastic bags, and placed in the freezer, where they now wait to be picked up, like trash.” I imagined Bruno through every step of that journey, and the tears started involuntarily pouring down.

“Can I…can I maybe take him with me and bury him?” I asked. It’s not like I even had a yard to bury him in, but the thought of leaving him behind destroyed me. She sighed again.

“You’re talking about Bruno, right, the chunky Corgi?” she asked. I nodded my head and wiped my tears. She pointed to the office door. “He said you’d come, but I didn’t believe it,” she said more to herself than to me. “Guess I owe him that $50.”

“What?” I asked, confused. She pointed to the door again, more impatiently this time. As if I was supposed to understand what she was talking about.

“Go, he wants to talk to you,” she said, then walked off towards the kennels, leaving me behind. I approached the door with the name plate that read, “Dr. Derek Robinson, Veterinarian.” I knocked, then opened it before getting a reply. I needed to find out what was going on.

He was on the phone, but flashed me a bright smile upon seeing me, then raised a finger to indicate he’d be with me in a minute. I waited by the door, confused by whatever was going on.

“Hello neighbor,” he said, finally getting off the phone. He looked different in his work clothes, and I was pretty speechless. He checked out the bag of chicken I was holding with a confused face.

“Lunch?”

“I uhh, I thought I could give it to Bruno before…you know, but I’m too late. Wait, you work here?” I asked, trying to make sense of it all. He laughed from behind his desk.

“Yes. And that’s sweet, but dogs don’t eat before euthanasia. Makes them nauseous,” he explained.

“Oh,” I said, feeling stupid. “So, did you have to do it?” I asked.

“Yes, an unfortunate part of my job,” he stated, and got up. He walked past me and opened the door. “Thankfully, only two dogs had to be put down today.” He started walking towards the kennels, and I followed him.

“Really? That’s…that’s great! How did that happen?” I tried to keep up with his long and quick strides.

“Well, I can’t in good conscience put down a dog that has a home waiting for him,” he replied as we got to the end of the kennels. He smiled at me. I looked at him, then at the chain-link fence, and realized we were standing in front of Bruno’s kennel. My heartbeat picked up and I quickly looked inside. He was laying on the concrete slab, miserable as ever, but still very much alive. I felt relief spread through me as I looked back at Derek.

“But…me?” I asked.

“Who else came in here to give an overweight death row Corgi a bag of chicken?” he asked, and I could sense a note of amusement in his tone.

“But I can’t, you know our building has a no-pet policy,” I replied.

“Good thing my brother is the owner. I already spoke to him. I’m paying a monthly pet fee on your behalf. Now say hi to your new friend,” he said. “Give him some of that through the fence first,” he pointed to my chicken bag, “he’s less snappy when he isn’t hungry.”

An hour later, I was frantically searching for a pet store to get Bruno a bed, food dishes, and snacks. Back home, he was wary of me at first. Only coming by when he wanted to eat. But over three months he acclimated. And with Derek’s help and guidance, we got him on a healthier diet and he was starting to look trimmer already. And while he still wasn’t a lap dog, and wanted absolutely nothing to do with Hunter, he now slept in his dog bed next to my side of the bed and woke me up by bumping his wet nose into my hand to take him on a morning walk. Bruno had become the biggest reason for my continued existence.

I looked at him now, as his eyes impatiently darted from my face to the door and back—a signal that it was time for an evening treat.

“We can’t keep eating like this,” I said, smacking my ever-growing belly. I walked over to the kitchen and he followed me. I reached for the dog treats, and he perked up. I slowly handed over the fragrant pepperoni stick. “Don’t tell Derek,” I said, and he grabbed it with precision, then made his way to the bedroom to enjoy it. I didn’t blame him, it’s not like I wanted to be in my own company either.

I poured myself a disproportionately large glass of wine and checked my phone. Three missed voicemails from my sister, Francesca. I'd have to get back to her eventually. She was the persistent type.

I made my way to the living room and turned on the TV. I glanced at the morning’s copy of the Hartford Times, splayed open on our living room table. It announced that the body of yet another young man had been found. That would make it 6 in total. One for every two months that we've lived here. It was now very clear: there was a serial killer on the loose.