A Killer Retreat by Tracy Weber Page A

Toni stayed and straightened the yoga props.
    After the final student left, I sheepishly approached her. “How did everything go the rest of last night?”
    â€œMost everyone left before you and I cleaned up the mess. Monica slinked out the door a little after you did.” She smiled. “After that, the rest of the night was uneventful.”
    My face flashed hot. “I’m sorry I caused such a scene.”
    â€œDon’t be. You only said what everyone else has been thinking.” She continued speaking as we slipped on our shoes and walked outside. “But that’s not why I waited for you.”
    I locked the door and steeled myself, afraid of what she might say next. Was Toni some sort of emissary, sent by Emmy to fire me? Maybe she’d come to tell me that Monica had taken out a restraining order. Heck, it might even be good news. Maybe Michael and I had been banned from the wedding.
    Toni smiled. “I’ve practiced yoga for years, but I’ve never taken a class like this one. The breath work was amazing!”
    I had no idea how tense I’d become until I felt my shoulders relax. She wanted to chat about yoga. Yoga was safe territory. Yoga, I could talk about for hours. “Thanks. The style I teach is called Viniyoga. I’m sure you can find it in New York. If you’d like, I can—”
    My words were cut off by a high-pitched scream. The scream of a terrified soprano plummeting off the edge of a skyscraper. The scream of a patient undergoing surgery without anesthesia. The scream of unbridled, tortured terror.
    Toni and I gave each other one quick look, then tore across the grass toward the bloodcurdling sound. Frantic voices punctuated each shriek.
    â€œSomebody catch him!”
    â€œHe’s going to kill them!”
    I imagined dozens of unspeakable evils as I ran toward the commotion: teenaged psychopaths, gun-wielding terrorists, duct-tape-wrapped suicide bombers, disgruntled yoga students …
    I rounded the corner and discovered—
    A fifteen-pound black and white terriorist.
    Bandit had discovered his life’s purpose.
    Rabbit hunting.
    He dug, nipped, ripped, and clawed at the rabbit hutch, trying to get to the creatures inside. A small crowd of people struggled, unsuccessfully, to stop him. Each time someone got close, Bandit leaped out of their grasp.
    I wanted to throttle the little devil, but I couldn’t blame him. He’d been born for this day. Jack Russell terriers were bred to hunt—raccoons, rats, foxes, and yes, even bunnies. All that stood between Bandit and fulfilling his destiny were a half-dozen two-legged buzz killers and some old, rusty chicken wire.
    Bugsy and Mister Hoppins didn’t appreciate the game. Cornered by a vicious killer with no means of escape, they had only one option: scream like their lives depended on it, which of course, they did. If someone didn’t stop Bandit soon, both rabbits might die. Their tiny hearts couldn’t take the stress.
    â€œWhere’s his owner?” someone yelled.
    No one answered. Monica either didn’t know about the trouble her dog was causing or—more likely—she didn’t give a damn.
    Bandit hurled his body at the cage. The rabbits screamed.
    My head exploded.
    Anger spread like a cancer, metastasizing throughout my body. My heart pounded; my muscles cramped; my nerve endings sizzled. Even my skin pulsated with rage. Allowing Bandit to charge after Bella was bad enough; Bella could defend herself. Letting him attack helpless rabbits? Well, that was war. My peacemaking resolutions went exactly where those terrified bunnies wished they could go: right down the rabbit hole.
    That’s it. I’m going to kill her.
    Bandit’s success was ultimately his undoing. He grabbed a loose corner of chicken wire and tugged, opening a terrier-sized hole along the edge of the hutch. The action distracted him long enough for his would-be captors to