The Pekingese I’ve had for over a decade is an old dog, nearly toothless at this point. While it might have looked like it bit Margot hard just now, the truth is, it didn’t even break the skin on her ankle.
Walton glanced at Margot’s foot, noticing the faint redness. His expression soured and he rolled his eyes at her theatrics.
Then Walton’s gaze fell on the small dog I was holding protectively. His expression froze for a moment, recognition flashing across his face.
“This dog... looks familiar!” Walton muttered. “This afternoon, I visited Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald here at the estate. Mrs. Fitzgerald was holding a dog look just like this in her arms.”
His words sent shockwaves through everyone present.
“That’s impossible!” Margot exclaimed. Her face twisted in disbelief.
“Mr. Gries, you must be mistaken,” she said, a nervous laugh escaping her. “The Fitzgeralds—those illustrious figures—would never own a mutt like that. If they ever kept a dog, it’d definitely be some rare, pedigreed breed!”
Walton shook his head firmly. “The Fitzgeralds aren’t the kind of family to care about such vanities. I know this is the same dog I saw in Mrs. Fitzgerald’s arms earlier.”