Page 61

So much had happened that day that his final dinner with Alton felt like it had taken place years earlier rather than the previous night. Which partly explained his uncharacteristic depression. He was exhausted. Physically tired, sure, but emotionally and mentally worn out, too. He needed some time to sort his thoughts. He needed sleep. And a good stiff drink wouldn’t hurt either.

The lights were still on at Carey Confidential as Zach locked up for the evening, and for a moment he hesitated. There was something sort of bracing, even reassuring, about Flint’s blunt honesty and pragmatic approach to life.

But the flip side of that blunt honesty could feel like sandpaper on an open wound, so Zach headed across the parking lot and got into his car.

On the short drive back to Salinas, he stopped by Walmart to buy cat food, a ready-made meal for his own dinner, and a burner phone he could use until the sheriffs saw fit to return his cell to him. He texted Brooke his temporary number, and headed for home and hearth.

On the bright side, he was going to have a nice quiet dinner with his favorite non-human and an early night.

On the not-so-bright side… Well, he was not going to think about that stuff tonight. He would try not to, anyway. For one night, he was going to try to turn off the part of his brain that always found something in his decisions and actions to disapprove of—or, best-case scenario—belatedly remind him of better choices, better ways.

The house was dark when he got home.

That was not a surprise. He’d been rattled when he left that morning, and he’d forgotten to turn on the timers. But when he unlocked the front door and stepped inside, something felt…off.

It was very cold, for one thing. Cold and damp. For another, it was very quiet.

Empty.

Nobody home.

Zach’s heart began to thump unpleasantly with instinctive dread. “Mr. B.?” he called.

No response.

That was unheard of. Never in all the years he’d had him, had Mr. Bigglesworth not showed up to greet Zach at the door.

“Mr. Bigglesworth?” Zach called sharply. “Hey, cat. Where are you?” He dropped the bag with the cat food and grilled chicken, felt for the wall light switch, flicked it, and nothing happened.

“What the hell?”

Zach moved to the nearest table, felt for the lamp, turned it on.

The front room remained shrouded in chilly moonlight.

“Kitty, kitty,” Zach called. Not that Mr. B. had ever been akittykind of cat.

Zach felt his way across the room to the short hall, groped for the light switch, and once again nothing happened. It wasn’t just the living room. The power was out.

But it was more than the lack of electricity. A breeze from across the hall whispered against his face, and he knew his bedroom window must be open.

“Shit.”

He hadn’t opened any windows that morning. Someone had to have broken in while he was at work.

That was bad news, but losing every piece of electronic equipment in the house was nothing compared to the idea of losing Mr. Bigglesworth. With every step Zach took, he was terrified he was going to tread on a small, fuzzy body.

Like the day wasn’t already in contention for worst of his life?

“Please,” he whispered. “Mr. B. Are you here?”

He crept into the bedroom. From the doorway he could see that yes, the large window on the other side of the room was half-open. The partially raised blinds knocked against the frame in the winter breeze. The silhouettes of the trees in the backyard swayed.

Mr. B. was a cautious little cat. If someone had broken in, he might have escaped out the window.

That was not good news, but it was a more hopeful scenario than the one Zach most feared.

As he leaned out the window, calling softly for the cat, a startling idea flashed into his brain. CouldBenhave broken in and stolen Mr. Bigglesworth?