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“What’d you do with them?” Bristal asks. “Sorry . . . I’m not trying to be gross, but just—that’s a lot of dead dogs.”

“And in the heat of the summer,” Linda agrees. “We had to move quickly, you’re right. You did the episode about the roadkill, right?”

“Yeah, that was me,” Bristal says.

“So you know ODOT just has a mass site they toss them in. That’s what we did with the dogs, most of them, anyway. A few families came by and gathered the remains, but the majority just went into that grave outside of town.”

“Thank you so much, Linda,” I say. “I know this isn’t easy to talk about.”

I’m about to flip my notebook shut and turn off my phone, when Bristal pops one last question.

“Might be weird, but . . . do you know if my uncle Dover’s dog was out here? Bailey Foxglove wrote in her notes that he called asking after Dodger.”

“Twice, actually,” I confirm.

“Yeah, Dodger was one of them,” Linda says. “He didn’t have tags on him or anything like that, but I knew Dodger by sight. I’d picked him up four or five times wandering out on Far Cry. He was a smart dog, sweet boy. I’d call him and he’d jump right up in my cab. I’d drive him home, didn’t bother taking him in. I knew your . . . Sorry, but I knew your family wouldn’t be able to pay the release fee, and the pound couldn’t afford to feed any dogs we didn’t have to.

“Looking back on it, I wish I would’ve just taken him home that day, but I had a full truck and he was way out at the edge of Far Cry, right where it hits the county road, and Dover lived out the other side, where a bunch of trees were down. I didn’t even recognize Dodger, poor bastard. He was covered head to toe in mud. Thought he was just some stray when I loaded him in the back, realized he was Dover’s dog once I got to the pound and started walking them down the hill one at a time.”

There’s a quick knock on the door, and a young woman pokes her head in. “Sorry,” she says, spotting us.

“Just checking to see if Barley needs his bandage changed or not?” she asks Linda.

“We’ll let you get back to work. We really do appreciate your time,” I say, grabbing my phone as Bristal slides down from the stack of dog food. Her knee knocks a box over, and it topples to the floor, a slew of pamphlets splashing across the linoleum.

“Sorry!” Bristal says, bending to pick them up.

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Linda says. “Those are a shitload of misprints I got back from the printer for the neuter and spay clinic.”

I’m down on hands and knees, helping Bristal scoop pamphlets back into the box when the bright red lettering across the top grabs my attention.

“Neuter and slay?” I ask. “That’s a heck of a misprint.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t too happy, seeing as we’re a no-kill shelter. Don’t really know what to do with two thousand pamphlets saying otherwise.”

“I can drop them off at recycling,” I tell her as Bristal hefts the box from the ground. “I don’t mind at all.”

“That’d be great, Lydia, thanks. One less thing for me.”

We head toward the door, and Linda goes in front, holding it open for Bristal as she edges her way out, balancing the heavy box.

“Give me a call sometime, if you want to coordinate another adoption drive,” Linda says.

“Sure thing,” I say, buckling my seat belt as Bristal climbs into the passenger seat. “And thanks again for your time!”

Linda waves as we back out, and Bristal immediately goes for her vape pen. “Well, that was fucking horrible,” she says. “I need to adopt a dog, like right now.”

“Do it,” I say.

“Can’t,” she says, pulling in a lungful. “No pets at Ash Park.”

“You can volunteer,” I say. “I’ll swing by and pick you up next time I go in. I try to hit it at least once a month. Walk the dogs. Brush them, stuff like that.”

“I could dig it,” Bristal says.

I drop her at Ash Park and head for the recycling drop-off, glancing down when my phone vibrates in the cup holder. I’m expecting an unknown number, yet another voice mail from someone claiming to have information on Randall Boggs.

Erin Hendrix is calling me.