I feel the legally minded part of my brain kick into gear, noting the fact that this man literally invited my cat into his home.
Once inside, we survey the space. It is very well ordered, but unlike Matt’s kitchen or my own, this is a prefabricated, fitted kitchen, without an extension. On the wall, by the back door, a cream-colored sign dangles, golden words spelling out the phraseCoffee Pairs Nicely with Silence!
We watch as the man pulls a carton of full-fat milk out of his fridge. He pours it into a hastily sourced olive dish, which he places delicately onto the floor, its swirling floral design just visible above the surface of the white liquid.
The furry chin above us lowers into the dish and we bob rhythmically, over and over, into the milk bowl, dark, light, dark, light, dark, as Blue drinks.
I try not to think what the vet would say about what is happening, about what the full-fat milk will do to poor Blue’s diabeticblood-sugar levels and his digestion. At least he’s having a lovely time, I force myself to think, though my anger at this man is escalating.
The bowl is empty, and the woman has reappeared and is crouching in front of us. She is dressed now, her hair tied back wet. She pets us, her smile broadening, as Blue leans in to it, her mouth moving, though her words are not audible.
Then it happens: her eyes flick directly into the camera’s aperture. You can see the second it clicks in her mind, what she is looking at, what the glowing green light on the collar means. Her smile stutters to a stop. Her eyes narrow, all her softness instantly gone.
She squints at us through the lens, her face a mask of disgust. She rises quickly, out of shot, and for a moment only her slippers and legs are visible, like in an old-time cartoon.
Thismust be them, the husband and wife who sent the message. Not Marina and Chris at all.
Suddenly, we are hauled up into the air. We are in the bike man’s arms as he bundles us back out into the garden.
Above us, the sky is a cloudless cerulean blue.
The man throws us down, we land deftly, and thunder away from the man and his house, leaping back up onto the garden wall in one fluid bound. We skip along fast, adrenaline pumping, the glowing windows and back doors of houses flashing past, a drop of milk still clinging to the furry chin above us, in spite of everything.
We reach a junction of walls. We sit, the camera rising and sinking fast with Blue’s panicked, exerted breath. It takes a long time for the movement to slow, for him to calm enough to bend and lick his paws. Yesterday’s video ends.
Chapter 20
Cat Camera
I straighten in the bed. Blueshifts lazily beside me, displeased by the motion.
So now I know who sent me that message.
I try not to let my anger toward this man overpower everything—a man who lured my cat into his house, fed him something he shouldn’t have, and chased him away without any consideration to how scary that might be for a small animal.
I need to sleep. I need rest, not stress—doctor’s orders.
But there’s one unwatched video left.
Today’s video.
The thumbnail stares back at me enticingly. I click on it and ease back onto the pillows to let it wash over me.
Lush emerald lawns, blue summer sky, red-brick moss-pocked walls, and half-open windows glinting blindly in the sunlight.
Birds taking flight. I scrub on through, wondering whether to give up and go to sleep, but other than the run-in with the bike man, Blue’s life looks so relaxing, so carefree. I yawn, eyes batting closed, and lazily open.
Onscreen, the sky judders into pavement, then thorny bushes, side walls, rooftops, the timer runs and runs as I near the end of the recording. I lose focus a little, and then a haunted face suddenly appears, filling the screen.
“Fuck.” I pull back, fast, from the screen, slamming the pause button, the video freezing instantly.
A person, a woman, her eyes frantic, wild with panic. My gazewhips over her frozen features. I am certain that I have never seen her before. I would remember if I had, because her face is heavily injured, large, blossoming bruises purpling her eye and cheekbone, her lip split and swollen. She stares back at me from her window.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “What is this, Blue?” I ask him, turning to look at him, but his warm, fluffy body does not stir; his breathing remains steady.
I know the answer. The words from Blue’s collar scream out in my mind. This must be the person who scratched the words.
This is theHelp Me.
