“Shea.”
“Esther, if you bring a date to this dinner, I swear I will say those exact things as dinner conversation. Is that what you want?”
“Okay, okay, I surrender. You win. It will be just us and the tetrazzini, okay? Come tomorrow.”
I opened my mouth to agree, but there was a thump in the hallway outside my door, the sound of something shifting. Then the sound of the stairwell door opening and closing. I wasn’t imagining it this time.
“I have to go,” I said to Esther. “Someone’s at the door.”
“Oh, good. Maybe it’s a neighbor coming to say hi. Maybe he’s single and good-looking.”
“Maybe it’s someone here to murder me. If it is, I leave you my worldly possessions.”
“Shea.”
“Talk soon, sis,” I said, and hung up. I let the joke fall away as I sat in silence, listening. Nothing for a long minute, and then a faint shifting sound, as if someone really was outside the door. I thought I could hear breathing.
I stood up, keeping the phone awake in my hand, ready to dial 911. I walked softly to the door, moving quietly so whoever it was wouldn’t hear me approach. I looked out my peephole but saw only the wall across the hallway.
Packages were left in the mail room, so it wasn’t UPS or FedEx. Who had a code to the front door of my building? I heard another soft sound. Someone was definitely there.
“I’m calling the police,” I said loudly. “You need to go away now.”
Silence.
“I’m not opening this door,” I said. “You can’t get in here. The police will be on their way in thirty seconds. Leave.”
Still silence, but I knew there was a presence in the hallway. I dialed nine, waited a beat, then dialed one.
Finally, there was a sound. Whiny and growly, rather pissed-off. A cat’s meow.
I blinked. Canceled the call. Then I opened the door.
In front of my door was a plastic pet carrier and two large shopping bags. As I watched, the cat carrier shifted, as if the cat inside was turning in circles, tired of being trapped.
Taped to the top of one of the bags was a note:
You were right. I decided not to come to my senses. I’m going to live with my mother for a while.
I agree he shouldn’t get the cat. Mom is allergic, so the cat is yours now. Sorry to do this to you, but he’s fixed and he doesn’t bite. I guess you can drop him at a shelter if you have to, but I couldn’t do it. If you keep him, let him sleep on the bed, because he loves it. He’ll do anything you want for tuna treats.
Sorry again,
Alison
P.S. His name is Winston Purrchill.
* * *
—
He was a gray tabby. Big and sleek, his markings dark, with a white expanse on his throat and chest. His face wasn’t pretty, and one of his ears was slightly bent near the top. When I opened his carrier in my condo, he walked out slowly, looking at me disdainfully from his muddy green eyes.
The shopping bags contained food, a litter box, a container of litter, and three packets of the promised tuna treats. I’d never owned a cat before, never had a pet of any kind. I’d never asked for this. What the hell was I supposed to do?
For the first time, I called Michael about something that wasn’t murder-related. I’d already had a lecture from Esther, and I didn’t know who else to call. “What do you know about cats?” I asked when he answered.
“I like them, even though most of them are assholes,” he replied. “Why? Does this have to do with something you’re working on?”