“Yes, she had a very puckered, witchy mouth. You know the kind. Like she was sucking on a sour lemon.”
“Oh,” Mike said flatly.
“Very evil-looking indeed.”
“Uh, well, maybe I could get my sister to come down here. She does our police sketches, when need be. And then we could get a sketch into circulation around town.”
“Yes, that would be great,” she said.
This was all so ludicrous. If I wasn’t legitimately in trouble, here, I might have popped out from under the stage and pointed that out. Cat hair grows back, and it’s not like I fucking stole that other cat and was halfway to Mexico with the thing and about to make it into guacamole. And now they were actually talking about a police sketch! I sighed, moved away from the hole and lay down on my back under the stage. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. I wanted to . . .
Shit. I didn’t know what I wanted to do.
