“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.