Damn it.
After making sure Bobbi’s not home—my job comes with unusual benefits—I stop by a supermarket and pick up a couple of things before heading to Bobbi’s place. She’s changed her locks, probably pissed off that she gave me a key after we came back from Mexico. But no lock can keep me out when I want to get in.
The inside of the house is the same—except for the new couch and the bed in the master bedroom. I helped her throw out the old sofa and bed, and my team promptly took them and ripped them apart, just in case. Mom stared at the mess for so long—without speaking—that I knew she was both disappointed and pissed. The dossiers are a splinter under her nail she can’t get rid of, and they’ll bother her until the day she dies even if she has accepted intellectually that they are no longer around. She’s only satisfied if she has clear confirmation that the mission objective has been achieved.
Señor Mittens meows at me, nose held high in disapproval and disdain. If he could speak, he’d say,You’re late.
At least the hair on his back isn’t bristling. When I first showed up with Lorcan, he acted like I was a serial cat killer and scratched the back of my hand deeply enough to draw blood. The wound has healed, and now the lines are gone.
“My God, you are grumpy for such a well-fed cat. Traffic sucked, okay? It’s L.A.” I set my stuff on the kitchen counter.
He gives me a wide-mouthed yawn.Yeah yeah yeah, excuses, excuses.
“You could be a little more gracious. I never avenged myself for that hairball.”
He stalks toward me, eyes slitted and paws padding over the ugly green and brown tiles. He makes an impatient growling noise.
“Just hold your horses, Señor Kitty.”
I pull out a plate from one of the cupboards and put it on the counter. Then I reach into the paper bag I’ve been carrying and slap a fresh, sashimi-grade ahi tuna steak on the plate. Just by itself it’s more than enough to tempt any feline, but I’m not done. I’m running out of time and need to make sure this cat is on my side as soon as possible. Soon a thick layer of caviar tops the tuna.
“Ta-da! A meal worthy of the emperor of cats. You should give me bonus points. I don’t even feed mybrotherscaviar.”
The cat licks his chops. I grin with triumph. “Oh yeah, baby. Come to papa!”
He jumps up to the stool, then onto the kitchen counter, his eyes on the feast I’ve created.
“Who’s the best human?” I ask.
Señor Greedy doesn’t deign to acknowledge me. Instead he starts scarfing down the tuna and caviar like he hasn’t eaten in ages. Which is ridiculous—I’ve been feeding him fresh tuna for days now.
“Hope she appreciates what I’m going through to win you over.”
He ignores me. Or simply doesn’t hear in his feeding frenzy.
The fine hair on the back of my neck starts to stand up. It’s the same physical reaction I experienced before the plane went down, and apprehension brushes its icy fingers down my spine. My fingers itch for the gun hidden under my shirt, but I restrain myself. There shouldn’t be anything in this neighborhood that will require me to fire a shot.
Still, the unsettling sensation intensifies. Just to be sure, I check the house, then head outside, hand on my Sig Sauer, and look around.
This neighborhood has mostly middle-class families, and most of them are out working, their kids in school. A guy with terrible burn scars on his cheek is limping down the street. He doesn’t look homeless—his cap seems new, and his white T-shirt and jeans are clean. His eyes are glued to his phone. He’s walking straight, so not intoxicated or high. A few houses down, another guy is mowing his lawn.
A short blonde climbs out of her black Camry across the street and starts to unload groceries. Darcy, a nosy neighbor who keeps an eye on everything and loves to gossip. She’s harmless, but has a scary memory for details. The only reason Mom isn’t interested in her is that she can’t distinguish what’s important from what’s mundane. The man pushes his cap down low on his head, probably to hide his scars from her and avoid any uncomfortable gawking.
Nothing’s out of place. The man turns the corner; Darcy shuts her trunk and goes inside her house. Mister Lawn Mower does a one-eighty and starts down another swath of grass. The chilly sensation dissipates.
That was weird. No unusual cars or people sitting in their automobiles, thumbing through their phones. So what was that about?
Your instincts are fucked up, a voice in my head says.You didn’t know your plane was sabotaged until it was too late, which you gotta admit is weird because if it were a few years ago, you would’ve noticed.
They aren’t fucked up, I argued with myself. I scan the area again, then return to the kitchen where Señor Mittens is now cleaning himself. Or maybe he’s trying to impart the tuna smell all over his body.
“Did you like that?” I scratch his head. Instead of acting like I’m a plague carrier, which he did before, he actually leans into it a bit. “You’re an expensive cat.”
He purrs, probably saying,I’m not cheap or easy.
I brush his hair, then give him a catnip toy out of a tightly sealed bag. “Make sure Bobbi doesn’t see this. It’s a secret between you and me—cat to man,” I tell him as he pounces on the mouse-shaped toy, tail raised high.
While he’s busy dominating his new toy, showing it who’s the boss, I wash the plate, dry it and put it away. Bobbi doesn’t need to know I’ve been feeding her cat behind her back or that I’m slowly winning him over. I’d bet my Bugatti that if she found out what I’m up to, she’d poison that innocent kitty mind against me.
