Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

She stares at me like I’ve just suggested we smoke a bowl
of crack cocaine and stick needles into our eyeballs. “You
don’t lock your doors when you’re alone in the house? Do you
want a crazy person to come in and attack you?”
“You can rag on me after we check the locks.”
Mojo following behind me, I walk swiftly through the
house to the front door. Sure enough, it’s unlocked—I forgot
to do it after Sloane came in. Cursing myself, I throw the dead
bolt. Then I make sure all the windows in the living room are
locked.
I do the same with the bedroom and the rest of the house,
going from room to room, pulling blinds and closing drapes
where I find them open.
The dog sticks right by me the entire time.
I can’t tell who’s more worried, him or me.
When I get back to the kitchen, Sloane’s calmly opening
another bottle of wine.
“So?”
“Your back door was locked. I checked the garage, too. All
good. No crazy people.”
Relieved, I sit at the table and scratch Mojo behind his
ears. He rests his snout on my thigh and looks up at me, his
furry eyebrows drawn together in a frown.
“Don’t worry, buddy. Mommy has an unloaded shotgun
she can wave around and probably scare an intruder away
with.”
Sloane pulls the cork from the wine bottle. “And Auntie
Sloane has a snub nose .357 magnum in her boot, which is
loaded, so you really shouldn’t worry.”
That shocks me. “Since when do you carry guns around in
your shoes?”
In the middle of pouring herself another glass of wine, she
stops and stares at me. “Since I went on a Mediterranean
cruise with a dozen gangsters.”