Page 5 of Dead Pretty

The cat is up and jumping onto the counter straightaway. I probably should tell her to get down—hygiene reasons and all—but she’s so lovely that I can’t bring myself to.

“You hungry, cutie?” I murmur, giving the cat a stroke.

I open the can and empty it out onto the saucer. The cat is on the food immediately.

I get a small bowl and fill it with fresh water from the tap, and I place it next to the saucer of tuna.

I leave the cat eating, and I go into my bedroom and change out of my work clothes. I put on a fresh tank top, pull a T-shirt over it, and put on some sweatpants.

I head back into the living room and glance over at the cat, who is still working its way through the tuna.

Do I take it to a shelter?

But then if no one comes to claim it, they might put it down.

I can’t let that happen.

I could put a poster up around the building. But that would mean giving out my cell phone number.

Definitely not happening.

What to do?

I guess I could try knocking on my neighbors’ doors. The cat could belong to one of them.

Getting up, I go and retrieve my sneakers from my closet and put them on.

“I’m just going to go and see if I can find your owner,” I say to the cat, like it actually knows what I’m saying or cares where I’m going.

Keys in hand, I pause at the door.

I’ve only been inside for a short period of time. But it doesn’t matter how long it’s been. I always struggle to open my front door.

Because of …

No, don’t think about it.

Don’t think about any of it.

I slide open the first dead bolt.

Then the second.

Unlatch the chain.

Turn the lock.

Hand on the door handle, I take a deep breath.

Nothing is there. Nothing is there. Nothing is there.

I let out the breath while pushing down on the handle, and I yank open the door.

The hallway floor outside my apartment is empty.

I close my eyes, momentarily relieved.

I step into the hall and shut the door behind me, locking it.