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in the room. This time it was Holly and the baby. Matt put his hand on the doorknob.
    â€œLet’s talk some more,” he said. “When I get back.”
    â€œBack from where?”
    â€œI can’t discuss it yet,” he said. “I was kind of sworn to secrecy.”
    â€œThat shouldn’t be a problem.” I opened the front door and smiled brightly. “You’re so good with secrets.”

Chapter Thirteen
    I HAD to know.
    I had to know where Matt was going and why it was dangerous.
    And the only person who could fill me in was Richie. So I broke my self-imposed vow of silence toward the entire rest of the free world and called him.
    â€œNeelie! Great to hear from you! Matt did a terrific job on the bear. Claw’s almost healed.”
    â€œGreat,” I said. “How are the new draft horses?”
    â€œMatt wormed them, did their teeth, routine stuff.” He paused. “Didn’t he tell you?”
    â€œHe’s been so busy lately,” I said, “we practically never get around to talking. You know how it is.”
    â€œI guess so,” he said, but it sounded more like a question. Then the conversation ground to a halt.
    â€œMaybe I’ll drop by this week,” I ventured.
    â€œWould you mind bringing a few more syringes? Matt forgot to leave extras,” Richie replied. “Turns out, one of the lions needed antibiotics—”
    â€œSure,” I said.
    Things were getting complicated. Syringes were not usually at the top of my pantry-supply list. I wanted Richie to think that Matt and I were still together, and now I had to come up with syringes. Lies always do that—pile up on one another like a game of pickup sticks, and you can’t touch one without upsetting the whole heap. Of course I wasn’t going to bring anything but a box of peanut-butter cookies for the horses. I would just pretend that I had forgotten the syringes.
    Â 
    The Wycliff-Pennington Animal Sanctuary sits on 750 acres off a secluded road, ten miles from us. It was founded twenty years ago by Elisabeth Wycliff, a recluse and an animal-lover, who rescued two badly treated lions from a roadside zoo. Over the years she added to her collection, never turning away an animal, paying for everything out of her own pocket. It was an enormous expense, but she persevered. With some publicity, she secured a sponsor, Thomas Princeton Pennington, who supported the sanctuary without a lot of fanfare. He had inherited a family fortune and increased it with legendary business acumen. He was always on television and in the papers, and I would read about him from time to time as he dated starlets or attended Greenpeace rallies or argued before Senate hearings about the environment.
    Even with Thomas Pennington’s full support, the sanctuary that bore his name wasn’t a glamorous place. Just a farm, really, with a few large barns and lots of strong fencing, but the animals were fed and treated well. For the past nine years, I had frequently accompanied Matt when he was called to work there.
    Now I drove up the long gravel driveway, past the big house where Mrs. Wycliff lived, then past the more modest house where Richie and Jackie lived, past the isolation barn for newly acquired animals, to Richie’s office. I got out of my truck. Richie was loading a battered black farm truck with hay and plastic bins of raw chicken legs and bags of frozen bluefish. He waved hello as soon as he spotted me. I waved back.
    â€œPeanut-butter cookies,” I said, holding up the boxes as I walked toward him. “Coffee and jelly donuts for us.” I smiled, hoping he had forgotten about the damn syringes.
    â€œGood to see you,” he said, taking his coffee and donut. “Come with me, it’s feeding time at the zoo.” He opened the passenger door, and I climbed in. We bumped down a gravel path, and I watched the farm roll past. It was peaceful; only an occasional loud