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and the girl’s sound goes light and high

With hope.

A light she makes follows the path

where a tail should be

stubbed out, by human hands.

I yawn-stretch, hackles rising.

Make myself bigger

follow sounds and smells

more promising than her as she

searches for something lost.

Chapter 41

Tress

“Shit.”

Felicity’s voice is light and breathless when she spots the cat on the livestream. “What do we do?” she asks.

I flick the video away, thinking. The jolt of panic I felt at the sight of the velvety paws has settled into a line of reasoning, each fact easing out the high peaks of adrenaline in my bloodstream.

“The cat isn’t hungry,” I say, “or he already would’ve grabbed someone.”

I pull the video back up, analyzing the few frames where he can be spotted.

“He’s not hunting, either,” I say, thinking aloud. “He’s too loose, just strolling. He’s . . .”

Felicity leans forward, chains jangling as she watches the video with me. “He’s prowling,” she says. It’s a good word for it. He’s moving cautious and slow, investigating while avoiding attention.

“Right,” I tell her. “But he’s curious, and cats don’t just hunt when they’re hungry. They’ll kill for sport.”

I make a decision, grab my backpack from the corner, and slip it over my shoulders.

“What are you doing?” Felicity asks, her voice high and tight again, no longer low and commiserating with mine.

“I’ve got to . . .” What? What have I got to do? Catch a wild animal with my bare hands?

“Don’t you leave me down here, Tress Montor,” Felicity orders, somehow maintaining an edge of authority even though she’s helpless.

“It’s okay. It’ll be okay,” I tell her. “I’ll lock the door.”

It’s a dumbass thing to say, and not only because I put the lock on the inside of the door. I don’t know why I’m comforting the person I’m specifically trying to keep on edge. But I am, and I keep doing it. “I’ll be back,” I call over my shoulder as I walk away, Felicity’s pleas following me.

I emerge into the kitchen to find Brynn crying and mixing water and beer into a Solo cup. I freeze, more alarmed at the sight of her than I would have been if the cat was waiting patiently for me, tail curled around its front paws.

“What the fuck?” Brynn says when she spots me, eyes going to the basement door as it clicks shut behind me. “I mean, what the actual fuck?”

“I—”

I’m trying to formulate an answer when I realize it’s a rhetorical question. Brynn isn’t asking me why I was in the basement. I don’t think she even cares. She cracks another beer and foam sprays onto the bright green leotard she’s wearing. I recognize it from the livestream; she’s the person feeding Ribbit his drinks.