Page 32 of Home Ice

Chapter eight

Niko

The drawer had been done since Tuesday. I’d fitted it that afternoon, waxed the runners in the evening, and slid it home so it seated with a sound like a held breath let go. The drawer tells you when it’s right.

It was late Thursday afternoon, and I was working on my latest job, a set of shelves for a client in Ravenswood. The boards were milled and ready.

The workbench was clean. I’d done a full wipe down in the morning and re-oiled the surface. While I was at it, I’d swept the floor and put away three clamps that had been leaning against the wall since before Christmas.

At twenty minutes to five, I gave up on the shelves. I told myself it was because it needed fresh eyes. I’d have to wait until tomorrow morning for that.

Rafe suggested Thursday, and I’d said Thursday’s good. Neither of us picked a time, and I’d spent the day trying not to guess about when he might arrive.

Five minutes later, headlights swung across the storefront glass. It was a truck, and it parked at the curb. I heard the solid thunk of a door shutting.

It was likely Rafe. I moved toward the drawer, but I stopped. I wanted him to see it in the furniture instead of out of context on the bench.

There was a knock on the door, two polite knuckles. I walked across the room and opened it. Rafe entered with the January cold following him inside. He held a paper bakery bag. There was a pale scatter of cat hair across one shoulder of his dark jacket, and a longer drift down the left sleeve.

“These are for you.” He held out the bag. “The bakery had two cherry ones left. The guy behind me in line was upset when I took them.”

“He’ll live.”

“He said he comes every Thursday for them.”

“Then he should come earlier.” I took the bag and set it on the end of the bench. “Thanks.”

He caught me looking at the sleeve. He looked down at it himself and brushed at it twice with his free hand.

“I had a thing this afternoon,” he said.

“A cat thing?”

“Yes.”

He continued.

“Trier—one of my teammates—his cat had a vet appointment, and it conflicted with his PT slot, so I took her.” He reported it all in a flat tone. “Her name’s Peaches. She’s fourteen.”

“You took a cat to the vet.”

“It was on my way. The appointment was fine. She’s got a thyroid thing, but it’s managed. The vet said her numbers were good for her age, and then the tech said it too, separately, so I don’t think they were just being nice.”

“And then you took her home, or Trier picked her up?”

“I took her home. I’d been warned there was a thing, and I still wasn’t ready for that,” he said.

“What happened? What can a fourteen-year-old cat do?”

“She’d had a day,” he said, as if that were an explanation.

He paused and took a breath.

“She goes under the bed after she gets home,” he said. “Trier said if nobody’s there she stays under it all night and doesn’t eat, and then she’s insulted for a week. So, he wanted me to sit on the couch and not make it a thing. An hour and a half later, she came out, sat on the opposite end of the couch while cleaning herself, and then she went to the kitchen to eat.” He shrugged.

“You waited for an hour and a half?”

“I answered some texts.”