Kyle shoved a forkful of scrambled eggs in his mouth. He’d covered them with hot sauce and the splotches of red, like watered down blood, against pale yellow egg triggered Cal’s gag reflex.
“So what happned?” Julie asked.
“Something killed the dog.”
Julie sucked in a breath and covered her mouth.
In that gesture, he knew that she knew.
“No way!” Kyle said.
“Tore it inside out,” Cal said, “must have been a wild animal.”
“I want to see.” Kyle’s chair groaned as he backed up from the table.
“You may not,” Cal said.
They’d wanted a house full of children, a tribe of noisy boys and girls. That had been the plan when they’d bought the fixer-upper in Manitou.
“I’m not a little boy,” Kyle said.
That was true. He was twelve years old, almost a teenager.
“I’m old enough to see crap like that.”
“I don’t want you to,” Cal said. “It’s nothing you want to look at, believe me.”