Page 4 of Purrfectly Outfoxed

We lock gazes.

Her tail swishes once. Twice.

And I realize with sinking certainty that she knows exactly what I am.

And she’s pissed.

Fuck.

Chapter 2

Tabitha

Ismooth down the lavender-scented towel I’ve just folded and add it to the neat stack on the kitchen table. Bea’s been complaining about her arthritis acting up recently, so I’ve been doing little things around the house when she’s out. Nothing too obvious—I don’t want her thinking she’s losing her memory—but enough to make her life easier. Things like finishing tasks she got distracted while doing, or cleaning the small things she has trouble seeing as her eyesight worsens.

The vacuum is already put away after I ran it through the living room. The dishes are done. I even dusted the mantle, though I had to shift back and forth between forms three times because my human hands couldn’t reach the high corners and my cat paws kept knocking over the picture frames—that instinct is difficult to control even on the best of days.

I glance at the clock on the microwave. Bea should be at her book club for at least another hour, which gives me time to finish the laundry and maybe take a shower. I mean, cats are constantly cleaning and grooming, but even I know that just means I’m covered in cat spit.

I can’t help but smile as I recall the day I first met Bea two years ago. I was stuck in a chaotic shelter after getting scoopedup by animal control in my shifted form, terrified and barely clinging to hope that someone would adopt me before I got sent to the big cat run in the sky. Or worse—spayed.

When Bea walked in with her kind eyes and gentle manner, I knew she was my ticket out. The plan was simple: get adopted, shift back to human, and bolt the moment I was left alone.

Except somewhere along the way, it stopped being an act.

Being a shifter sounds cool in theory—the freedom to be human or animal whenever you want—but the reality is that most of us are just broke and desperate. Before Bea, I was bouncing between shelters, sleeping in alleys, stealing food from dumpsters. So yeah, I took advantage of a kindhearted old woman who wanted to save a stray cat. Sue me.

Except I do love her. Not just the comfortable house or the gourmet cat food, but the way she hums while she gardens. The way she leaves the TV on the nature channel because she thinks I enjoy it (I do. Nature documentaries are my jam). The way she tells me about her day even though she thinks I can’t understand.

“Whiskers,” she’ll say, settling into her reading chair with her mystery novel, “you won’t believe what Marjorie said at the store today.”

And I’ll curl up in her lap and listen, purring, because it turns out that’s all she really wants. Someone to listen. Someone to talk to.

She never had children. Her husband died five years ago. She lives alone in this big, beautiful house—I have no idea how she maintained it before I started doing things to help—and it’s breathtaking, really. Every corner is filled with memories, framed photographs of her past, and bits of history I’ve learned just from curling up in the sunniest spots and eavesdropping on her phone calls. Sometimes, I wish I could ask her more about it all, but my voice is confined to a soft meow, a sweet purr.

So that’s how it’s been all this time. Just us. Me and Bea.

Life is damn near perfect.

I’m carrying the folded laundry upstairs, getting ready to take my shower when I hear the sound of Bea’s car in the driveway.

What?

I freeze halfway up the stairs, my arms full of towels, very much in my human form.

She’s not supposed to be home yet.

Panic flares through me. I race upstairs and practically shove the towels into the linen cupboard. Then I take the robe off that I normally wear around the house and hide it back on the highest shelf where Bea can never reach and close the door.

Shift, shift, shift!

The familiar tingle races through me as I hit the hardwood floor. Bones compressing, reshaping. The world grows larger as I shrink down to four paws.

Racing downstairs, I leap and land on the sofa cushion just as I hear her key in the lock, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The front door opens.

“Whiskers? I’m home early!” Bea’s voice calls out, warm and familiar. “Dotty wasn’t feeling well, so we postponed. I brought you a treat, sweetheart!”