Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
People often ask if cats are my passion.
I love them.
But I don’t want to run my own shelter. It’s a managerial headache, and charity work has always been a hobby but not something I crave to devote every waking minute to.
Like right now.
Holding Pumpkin is shattering my heart to a million pieces. I couldn’t do this every day. Go to sleep with the faces of each and every animal in my head. Knowing they haven’t found their forever home yet.
“Jane,” Sasha, the owner, rounds the corner with a clipboard and beaming smile. “We’re closing up in twenty. If there’s anything else you need, just let us know. It was a great day today.”
It was.
Truly great.
Except for this little one…
Sasha walks away, her sneakers squeaking on the tile.
Thatcher bends down closer and pets the sleeping tabby’s tiny head, which seems even tinier against Thatcher’s large palm. “I can take her and keep her in security’s townhouse,” he tells me. Our eyes meet, my mouth falling.
What…he’d do that?
“Is that even possible?” I ask, surprised. “There aren’t rules against having animals in security?”
“Not specifically,” Thatcher says. “It’s not really recommended, but there’s no rule against it either.”
I shake my head. Even if there’s a part of him that might want her himself. I know it’s also for me. And I can’t let him do that.
The door jingles open. We both perk up. The only people allowed in the shelter have been potential adopters. Otherwise, the curb is home to cameramen and fans waiting for Thatcher and me to exit.
A girl with French braids and burgundy overalls enters. “Hi, I’m looking to adopt a cat.” I hear her say to the employee at the front. “Jane Cobalt, she…um had an Instagram video of her. Her name is Pumpkin. Is she still here?”
Relief wells inside me. Thatcher touches my shoulder, and I smile while he nods like it worked out, Jane. It did.
“Ready to push out?” he asks me. Already knowing I’m beyond behind schedule. I’m about to reply but he suddenly frowns deeply. I’ve come to recognize that look. Someone is talking to him in his comms. And it’s not good news.
He touches his ear—his mic. Confirming this.
Something isn’t right.
32
JANE COBALT
There was a break-in.
At our townhouse. The security alarms were triggered, and thank God no one was home at the time. It’s the saving grace that I cling on to.
Police and our bodyguards have canvassed every inch of the townhouse.
Secure , they decreed.
Whoever broke in has fled. I’m not sure of the details yet. So many missing links unnerve me and unsettle my stomach.
How did they break in?
How many intruders were there?
Do we know the intruders or are they merely strangers?
How did they slip past security guards who watch the townhouse?
What did they even want?
At the moment, the police and our bodyguards are trying to answer those questions. They’re reviewing security cam footage in the living room while Moffy and I head upstairs to take inventory of anything that may’ve been stolen or destroyed.
So we can file a police report.
I carry old and wise Lady Macbeth up the creaking staircase, my black cat snuggled against my chest. “What happened here, my love?” I whisper.
She meows contently. Not so frightened or skittish—she rarely is. Yet Lady Macbeth saw who crept into the empty house.
Only my six cats were here, and I’ve triple-checked each one and hugged them to death. They’re all accounted for. None are hurt.
None escaped.
But an eerie feeling pricks my arms and the back of my neck. Just picturing an intruder touching my cats.
Imagining one or two or even three pairs of feet ascending these stairs without our permission. Entering our bedrooms. Hands skating over our belongings. Maybe with malicious intent.
Maybe with cruel hate.
I feel awfully gross.
Like I need to bathe and scrub every wall and floor and all of me. And I can’t help but remember the last time I experienced this nauseating violation that sinks and churns the bottom of my stomach.
Nate.
I worry he had a hand in the break-in.
But there’s no use in dwelling right now. I need to be on top of damage control. It’s what Moffy and I are good at, and Sulli and Luna have to feel safe to return here. They’re spending the night in Hell’s Kitchen with my brothers while we sort through this mess.
“I can’t make sense of what they were hoping to steal,” I whisper to Moffy, only one stair ahead of me, climbing the narrow staircase. “We live in the least lavish house of all the properties.” Mind spinning, I talk rapidly. “I hot-glued a bottle cap on my twelve-dollar vest the other day. My mom is the one who collects designer handbags and wears Chanel and Prada. And if I could guess, the most expensive item you own would be your car.”