And I am in.
‘No, Blackie!’ She reaches for me, but it is kitten’s work to evade her now. Her poor senses may still be in doubt but I can hear and smell the emptiness within. The dust of days has only just been sent floating; the rodents in the baseboard scurry, shocked. I do not know this place but I sense we will be safe here.
With a leap, I gain the back of an ancient couch and mark its horsehair fabric as my own. It tears with a satisfying rasp and I am nearly done by the time the girl has finished her own examination of the room, collapsing on the seat beside me with a heavy sigh.
‘You would’ve liked him, Blackie,’ she says. I do not think she can see me. The light in here is dim, the windows shaded, and she is facing away. ‘He liked animals. More than most people, maybe. Then again, most people didn’t like him. Too big for his britches, some said. Even the cops – they thought he showed them up, made them look bad at their own jobs. The old man made enemies. AD warned me. He said the old man was past it. That he really was too old.’
I bristle at that. How could I not? This talk of age and infirmity hits close to home. The girl feels me shifting and misinterprets. ‘I’m sorry. I know I startled you, grabbing you like that, but I had a bad feeling. I wanted to get away – to get away and think. He always told me to trust my instincts. Told me that I was responding to stimuli – to senses I didn’t even know I had. That’s another thing you would have liked about him, Blackie. And he – well, it’s too late now. But I don’t think he told anybody else about this place. I think we’ll be safe here, at least for a while.’
The day has passed its zenith and the office is both quiet and shadowed. I expect her to sleep and prepare for that myself. But she is restless, rocking the old sofa as she pushes to her feet and begins to pace.
‘I should never have let Tick go.’ She runs her hand through her hair; the pink stands up like a cockscomb. ‘I’m all the family he has. The only family he can rely on, anyway. And AD isn’t …’ She stops, her thoughts getting the better of her, and shakes her head. ‘I mean, if the old man hadn’t found me … hadn’t singled me out …’
I watch her, curious about her process. She is working out a problem, I can tell. But whereas I would choose to sit and watch – to wait, still and silent, for a movement, for the prey to reveal itself – she must stay active. I see that, and consider. For all her size, she has been a prey animal. Such activity must have been vital at some point. If she now seeks to hunt, however …
‘Hang on,’ she says. I cock my ears. She has rushed over to a cabinet and I turn, my eyes following her as she crouches low. This is hunter behavior. This is how stealth turns to profit. But no. She has opened a door and pulled out – can it be? Yes, the aromas announce themselves even before she turns, a grin making apples of her wan cheeks.
‘Supplies.’
There is something complicated here, with metal and a small machine, but she masters it. The scent that reaches me first – an aged cheese – is only part of the feast, and before long, Care has revealed both fish and fowl.
‘Anchovies,’ she says. Her nose wrinkles despite itself, and I realize this will be my portion. The chicken – a pallid version, cold and cooked – seems a poor substitute, but I will not complain when she takes that as her share. The cheese she slices between us, leaving the bulk of it intact in its waxy red casing. I cannot stop gorging, my purr almost obscenely loud. The girl makes her own noises, though, and for a time we are of a like purpose. We eat until we cannot consume more, and then we rest.
‘The old man.’ She leans back in the one wooden chair, shaking her head. The memories are fond now that her belly is distended. I have licked my whiskers clean and settle down to hear her reminiscences, the full meal making me sleepy. ‘I forgot that he kept this place so well stocked. He was always prepared.’ She’s sleepy too. I can hear it in her voice. ‘Which is why …’
Her voice drops off. I glance up. Her eyes are still open, and rather than push back, she pulls the chair up to the desk where I lie, my forepaws tucked neatly away. ‘He was careful, Blackie. Always. Kept great records, too. They’re all here.’
She opens a drawer to bend over it. As I hear her leafing through paper, my eyes begin to close, opening only briefly as she hauls a thick folder out onto the desktop beside me.
Some of the pages she flips through right away, moving them to the side. I sniff them, curious, but smell only dust, the faint scent of tobacco and something other. The last man to handle these was ancient – older even than Care imagines – and he was cautious. I get no tang of fear or nervous sweat. In fact, the odor is pleasant, like a familiar blanket or a remembered kindness, and as Care begins to read I shift over to the discarded pages, nestling down on the pile.