The cat sits there, tail flicking in slow irritation, looking more offended than afraid. Rain beads on his fur, turning it glossy. Yellow-green eyes lock on me, unblinking.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter. I crouch, careful, hands open. “Hey. Easy. Please don’t bite me.”
He sniffs my fingers, nose twitching, then presses his head into my hand like he owns me.
Then it clicks.
Thistle.
Caroline’s cat.
My chest tightens. I’ve seen him sprawled on her windowsill, stalking dust motes like prey. I’ve felt his judgment from café counters. He’s unmistakable.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask, glancing down the road, then back toward town.
He answers by meowing once, low and demanding.
I scoop him up before he can change his mind. He’s heavier than he looks, solid and warm, damp fur soaking into my sleeve. He tolerates being carried with long-suffering patience, eyes half-lidded, one paw braced against my chest like he’s prepared for betrayal.
Something twists in my gut.
I open the passenger door and set him on the seat. He sniffs the upholstery, circles once, then settles like this is normal behavior.
“Don’t get used to this,” I tell him, even as I pull the seatbelt across his middle to keep him from launching himself into the dashboard.
He stares at me.
I drive.
Caroline’s house looks wrong the moment I pull up. The yard is damp and trampled, grass pressed flat in uneven paths. Onewindow is shoved open, screen bent inward like it was pushed in a hurry. My pulse kicks up again.
I park crooked and grab Thistle, tucking him under one arm as I move fast up the steps.
“Caroline?” I knock once. Then again, harder.
Nothing.
The smell hits me before I can knock a third time. Sweat. Spice. Heat. It crawls up my throat, thick and cloying, makes my stomach flip and my pulse stumble. It’s wrong, too strong to be normal, too present to be ignored.
I knock again. “Caroline. It’s Damon.”
No answer.
My skin prickles. This isn’t right.
I set Thistle down. He sits, ears forward, eyes locked on the door like he knows exactly what’s on the other side.
“Stay,” I tell him, which is ridiculous. He ignores me.
I jog back to the cruiser, pop the trunk, and dig through the mess of gear and tools. Crowbar. Screwdriver. A flashlight I forgot to charge. I grab what I can, hands clumsy with urgency.
When I turn back, Thistle is still watching me, unblinking, tail twitching once.
“I’m fixing the door,” I tell him. “Don’t look at me like that.”
The crowbar slips into the frame. I brace my foot, lean my weight in. The wood groans, then splinters. The lock gives with a crack that echoes too loud in the small house.
The door swings inward.
