Authors: Dani Alexander
I hadn’t noticed these things the first time, because I had been so blown away by Cai’s artwork. Now that I could see the furnishings, I was puzzled.
With as much money as Joe had supposedly pulled in, his belongings would have been rejected by secondhand stores.
Weird. If Joe was raking in money from his illegal activities, it wasn’t spent anywhere in his home. I had to check out the diner’s books. Which meant I needed to get out of there quickly.
I stopped in the kitchen briefly, picked up a box on the counter and tilted my head at the aroma of cinnamon. It was strong enough to seep through the foil covering the pan on the counter. When I lifted the aluminum out of the way, a tray of cinnamon rolls answered every question I had about Peter’s scent. I grabbed one, polishing it off before reaching the bank of doors in the hallway.
I opened each one, trying to find Peter’s room. It was in the far back, connected to the yard by a large picture window. The room was spartan—a desk with a computer, a simple double bed, a dresser and a bookshelf. All had seen better days.
Standing at the threshold, I considered spying—because that’s what cops do. It would have been creepy though. Looking for evidence was not the same as prying into Peter’s personal life for my own edification—which I would have been doing. And which I deeply longed to do. I’d have to settle for what was out in the open.
The paintings on Peter’s walls, which I could attribute to Cai, danced with a purity of colors. There were no scenes or discernable images. Just bright swirls of green, purple, red mixed with indigo and black. I likened the murals to the backgrounds of a children’s book. Cai had painted joy on these walls.
Other than Cai’s paintings, the room was bare of personality.
No pictures. No vases. No memorabilia—unless one counted the unfinished liquid near Peter’s computer. Some dark-twisted evil
percolated in that coffee cup near the keyboard. I steered around it, while shaking the box of cat treats I’d found in the kitchen.
The moment I opened the box, something crawled out of the depths of the crumpled comforter. I immediately backed up and stared at the thing.
Demons should not be that small. Were demons small? Or gargoyles. Was it a gargoyle?
I was being facetious, but really, seriously, “What. The.
Fuck?”
While I debated whether to leave it here, Begone stretched onto her back and fell off the side of the bed. She grappled wildly until one claw saved her from an ass-meets-floor encounter. The thing dangled there far too long for me to believe she could figure out how to extract her claws on her
own. But I didn’t want to touch it—her—
it
, to help.
For one thing, the…cat?—looked maimed, or burned. Her random tufts of fur were indiscriminately stuck between bits of pink skin. It was like a four-year-old had used dust bunnies from under the bed to create a collage of fur on a burlap canvas.
Begone also reeked. The thing was a walking biohazard of stale tuna seeped in sun-soured milk.
As if the smell, scarred flesh and bent tail weren’t enough, the poor creature had an ear missing, and a marbled white and grey scar from the top of its head down to its black nose.
“I’m supposed to take you home,” I told the thing. Begone continued to grasp at the comforter to keep Peter’s thin carpet from devouring her. Then she started purring and batting at…
nothing. There was nothing
there
.
“You couldn’t just smell disgusting and look like an ad for animal cruelty? You had to have the crazies, too?” Purr.
My brain launched an immediate argument about the beast.
You’ve already ruined your career, your marriage, possibly your partnership, definitely your reputation, and most likely your house. Are you really going to draw the line at taking a cat home?
It’s not a cat.
It means something to Peter.
Everything that belongs to, is about, or has even a cross reference to Cai, means something to Peter.
While I carried on my internal discussion, the cat pushed its back claws into the side of the bed and back-flipped onto the mattress. It finally yanked free from the covers, sticking a furless
ass in the air and flopping on its side—without incident this time. While it bedded down, I got to the real reason I was in Peter’s bedroom.
Indebted to a Fucking Hairball With the Crazies The cheap bookshelf reached from floor to ceiling, where it leaned in the direction of the eastern window, as if the wood was still trying to reach for the sun; or the books shoved into it were too much of a burden. They were piled, stacked, stuffed and crammed between college notebooks and packets of computer printouts. Most shelves contained textbooks on Japanese, Russian, Chinese, Italian and Spanish, accompanied by dictionaries in each language. I pulled a few out and flipped through them, discovering Peter had highlighted in each book and written marginal notes.
The notes were vast and detailed. Words circled and the definitions in ballpoint on both sides. I traced my thumb over his writing, feeling the dips in the paper.
The highest shelf contained a different selection of books.
These were on parenting, teenage behavior and more than a few on Bipolar Disorder. My heart twisted as I summoned an image of a teenage Peter, suffering through these textbooks, learning how to take care of Cai. It was both heartbreaking and poignant.
Reluctantly, I closed the book and checked the other shelves.
How fluent was he in all these languages? As I sat down to flip through the notebooks, the thing—I refused to say ‘cat’—rubbed its head against my elbow.
“I’ve been at homicide scenes that smelled better than you,” I told it.
Purr.
“Dogs are okay, but I don’t like cats.” Blink.
“Do you know
why
I like dogs and not cats? Because when you’re talking to dogs, they don’t walk away in order to rim themselves.”
Begone continued to orally pleasure itself, while I did my creepy, stalker impression and read through Peter’s notebook. I told myself it was only one, and that wasn’t too much nosy digging. Then guilt knocked on my conscience. With a sigh, I returned the notebook to the shelf and gave the masturbating cat a grimace.
“You’re like a self-published pet porno.” It ignored me. “I don’t want to see this again,” I warned it, flapping a hand at the self-gratification show.
Begone looked up at me from her pretzeled position and blinked.
“Christ,” I muttered, dragging a hand through my hair. Why had I agreed to this?
On my way to fetch the cat carrier, I bumped into Peter’s desk, jostling the mouse and knocking the screensaver out of function. Up popped a newspaper article with a small picture of Angelica and me, taken at a fundraiser a few months ago.
Detective Austin Glass, son of criminal defense attorney, Desmond Glass Sr. Esq…
I rolled my eyes at my father’s title as much as the fact that he was mentioned, prominently, in an article about
my
medal.
…was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross today.
Detective Glass entered a convenience store with his partner…
And that word ‘partner’ would take on a whole new meaning once the press got hold of the new gay Austin. I skipped reading the rest of the article. I knew the story. I now also knew that Peter was nosier than I.
My fingers tapped against my thigh during my not-so-brief time staring at the screen. They were as anxious to check Peter’s computer history as I was. The physical effort it required to turn away from the screen was excruciating.
I took a hard look around the room and tried to decipher what it was that I knew about Peter. The fact of it was, I didn’t know much. I knew about Cai. I even knew about Darryl. But I barely knew anything about Peter. Except that Peter had no self-identity beyond Cai. He obviously had ambition to do something, if the bookshelves held any clue. He was proud that he spoke other languages, as I remembered him almost bragging on our first date.
My fingers began to tap faster. That certain ‘something’ was tickling my brain, telling me I had the picture, I just needed to fill it in.
“Why? Why did you say you owed Cai?” I asked his bookshelf. “Why is everything in your life about Cai? You ask me to help Cai. You give up everything for him. You rescue him, protect him, parent him.”
I had just started mentally going through my previous conversations with Peter, searching for clues, when a metal clank from the front room diverted my attention. I assumed two things incorrectly: first, that it was Peter or Darryl; and second, that I had nothing to worry about.
Surely either of the guys would have known I was here. Cai
would have told them. No one called out to me. There was only silence and then what sounded like a loud bowl of Rice Crispies.
I had closed the door earlier, to keep the cat corralled, so after confirming that it was still sleeping on the bed, I opened it just long enough to slide through.
What greeted me in the living room wasn’t Darryl or Peter, but flames swarming over the sofa, and across the front door like white water rapids. Moments later, a sea of smoke rose up and curtained the room. Coughs leaked out of me, then became a constant rhythm. With the front door blocked, I peddled backwards until I felt the wall. Bending to where the smoke was thinner, letting the walls guide me, I started to make my way toward the bedroom. A paint can knocked into the toe of my sneaker and disappeared before my watering eyes. I sunk lower to the ground.
Not being familiar with Joe’s home, I floundered into the hallway, getting twisted and turned around as smoke fogged the narrow corridor. Fire sizzled against wood and cloth, breathing out heat against my skin, making me grateful for the sweat from my run. On my belly now, I snaked across the floor, blindly searching for any door that wasn’t open to a room filled with smoke. I needed Peter’s room where I had closed off the cat.
And wouldn’t it have to be the fucking cat that saved me?
Begone’s howls rose above crackling plastic, while paint cans exploded like popped corn, their lids bursting off, then flying out to smack the walls. One teetered to a rest near my hand. More howls. I followed them while smoke coated my tongue with every cough.
Movies don’t capture how quickly smoke follows fire or how
swiftly it spreads. It was instantly overwhelming. The heat intensity was like a Miami summer turned up a thousand, smothering degrees. All I could think about was opening that door and trying to fill my lungs with something besides black, hot air. I struggled to get to Peter’s room, solely focused on getting out the window.
My chest hurt, and I knew from training that heat inhalation was just as dangerous as smoke, so each inhale was a practice in Lamaze breathing. In, in, in. Out. Out. Out. My fingers walked up the door, dragging my torso and head into the smoke as I fumbled for the handle.
I tested the knob for heat, in case a fire raged on the other side. It was warm but manageable. And by the sound of that cat, there was an ample supply of good air in that room.
A river of smoke followed me as I collapsed inside, slamming the door shut while coughing and spitting out black phlegm onto Peter’s carpet. Smoke continued to slither under the door.
Displacing Begone, I seized the comforter and stopped the flow.
I grabbed a t-shirt from the nearest drawer and wrapped it around my fist, smashing out the window. There was no stopping the coughing, even as fresh air flowed in.
The cat’s howls were like claws on a chalkboard.
Jesus, shut up
! I instantly regretted my instinctual inhale. A fresh set of coughs twisted my lungs dry. The roar of fire grew closer.
In a graceful sweep, I scooped up the cat, coughing my own howl as it nail-gunned its claws into my chest. Planting a foot on the bed, I launched myself out the window and into the backyard.
My shoulder ached from the landing, and for some reason my ass did, too. However, nothing was as agonizing as the fucking cat claws that now ravaged my chest in Begone’s attempt to scramble out of my arms. I fought the animal, along with the urge to scream, while my oxygen deprived lungs attempted to suck down air through their pain.
Slow breaths, Austin
.
From seeing the first whippet of flames until landing on my side on the grass, it had only been around two minutes. I allowed ten seconds to lounge on the ground, time enough for the fire to leak into Peter’s bedroom and French kiss the shattered window. A flame licked out a few feet above my knees. I scurried away and leveraged myself to standing.
Grabbing Begone’s scruff, I pried her claws out of my chest, making pained hissing noises as I swerved to the back gate. Cat hanging in one hand, I fumbled with my arm, pulling my cell phone off the Velcro holder. I punched in 911, just as I kicked the gate open.
The way the townhomes were situated caught my eye. A row of connected families, held together by kindling. At seven a.m.
all three were most likely occupied.