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“Can we take the cat now?” I ask. I put the bracelet down on the counter. “Oh, your friend will probably want her collar back too.”
He looks at the woman and then at me. Then his hand closes over the bracelet and he heads into the back and comes back a few minutes later swinging a cardboard pet carrier.
My hand shakes when I take it. Sam grins at me in amazement, but all I can think of is that I have her. I did it. She’s right here in my hands. I look through the air holes and I can see her, prowling back and forth. Lila. A cold jolt of terror runs through me at the wrongness of her imprisoned in that tiny body.
“Be back in an hour,” I tell the guy, hoping I never see him again.
I hate this part.
I always hate the part where I know they are going to wait, their hope souring into shame at their own gullibility.
But I clench my jaw, take the cat carrier with Lila in it, and walk out the door.
When I open it up in the parking lot of the coffeehouse, the first thing she does is bite me hard on the heel of my hand. The next thing she does is purr.
* * *
Mom says that because she can make people feel what she wants, she’s learned how to see into their hearts. She says that if I was like her, I’d have the instinct too. Maybe being a worker tempts you to be all mystical, but I think mom knows about people because she watches faces very closely. There’re these looks people get that last less than a second—micro-expressions, fleeting clues that reveal a lot more than we wish they did. I think my mother pays attention to those without being aware of what she’s doing. Me, I had to practice.
Like, walking back toward the coffee shop with the cat in my arms, I can tell that Sam is freaked out by the con, by his part in it, by my planning it. I can tell. No matter how much he smiles.
I’m not my mother, though. I’m no emotion worker. Knowing that he’s freaked out doesn’t help me. I can’t make him feel any different.
* * *
I dump the cat onto one of the café tables and grab some napkins to wipe the blood off my wrist. My hand’s throbbing. Daneca is smiling down at the cat like she’s a full set of Gorham silver recently fallen off a truck.
This whole thing might be a delusion, the fantasy of a guilty conscience. But I am going with it.
Lila cries, and the barista looks over from behind the espresso machine. The cat cries again, then takes a lick of the foam on the edge of Daneca’s paper cup.
I just stare at Lila the cat, utterly incapable of doing more than smothering the strange keening sound that’s crawling up the back of my throat.
“Don’t,” Daneca says, waving the cat off. The cat hisses and then slumps down on the tabletop. She starts licking her leg.
“You won’t believe how he did it,” Sam tells Daneca, leaning forward eagerly.
I look at the barista, at the other customers, and then back at him. Everyone’s already paying us too much attention. The cat starts chewing on the end of a claw.
“Sam,” I say, cautioning.
“You know, Sharpe,” he says, looking at me and then around. “You’ve got some interesting skills. And some interesting paranoia.”
I smile in acknowledgment of his words, but it hurts. I’ve been so careful not to let anyone at school see the other side of me, to see what I am, and now I’ve blown that in a half hour.
Daneca tilts her head. “It’s sweet. All this trouble for a kitty.” She brushes the top of the cat’s head, rubbing behind her ears.
My cell rings in my pocket, vibrating. I stand up, dropping the bloody napkins into the trash can, and answer the phone. “Hey.”
“You better get over here with my car,” Grandad says. “Before I call the cops and tell them you stole it.”
“Sorry,” I say contritely. Then the rest of what he said sinks in and I laugh. “Wait, did you just threaten me with calling the police? Because that I’d like to see.”
Grandad grunts, and I think maybe he’s laughing too. “Drive on over to Philip’s—he wants to have some kind of dinner with us. He says Maura’s going to cook. You think she’s a good cook?”
“How about I pick up a pizza?” I say, looking at the cat. She’s rubbing against Daneca’s hand. “Let’s just chill out at the house.” I don’t think I’m ready to see Philip and not spit in his face.
“Too late, you little slacker. He already picked me up and you’re my ride home, so get your ass over to your brother’s apartment.”
