The Acceptance

Chapter 4

Oren travelled up the clean, wide street to the stately mansion. Unlike the area he’d just left, in this community the crime rate was almost nonexistent. Money had its uses, and in these aloof environs it ensured privacy and well-being, forming the perfect purlieus to the atrocities committed in the basement of the mansion.

Oren unlocked the front gate with a passkey and, forgetting himself for only a moment, practically skipped up the long, paved walkway to the curved stairs leading up and into his lavish world.

Beneath the high, covered porch, no light penetrated, and he let the giggles escape. Before long, he’d have a new one—but for now, he’d make do with the slut they already had.

Except for prominently displayed paintings and sculptures, the cavernous foyer was empty when he let himself in. To his left was the massive formal dining room. Aunt Dory sat at the end of the long mahogany table, nursing a whisky and talking to herself.

Oren detected blood on her hands, and worry wormed through his deranged giddiness.

What had the stupid cow done now?

To his right was the study, and through the open door, Oren saw Uncle Myer sprawled in a leather chair, his close-cropped graying hair standing on end, his shoulders slumped. He wore only dirty boxers, gaping open to expose his withered member.

Lip curling, Oren let the rage boil. God, he despised their ignorance and slovenly ways. They sickened him—but they were his cross to bear.

And they afforded him the life he craved. The power. The salacious immorality.

Neither of them made note of his entrance, so he ignored them both and went through the family room to the kitchen. Taking the elevator down to the unused servant’s quarters, his anticipation bloated. He neared the deep bowels of the magnificent stone house, but heard no sounds.

No whimpers.

No muffled pleas for mercy.

Only a silent peace filled the air, and buzzed like annoying gnat in his brain.

By the time Oren reached the basement, his heart punched a fevered crescendo against his ribs, so hard that it pained him. Nearing panic, he vaulted out of the elevator, rushed through the game room, and burst into the extra storage area.

He drew to an inflamed halt.

Eyes wide and unseeing, mouth agape in a now silent scream, the lifeless body of the woman hung in an obscene sprawl from tightened restraints.

Bruises mottled the body.

A trail of semen splattered her white thighs and belly.

Oren swallowed back bile and disgust. Almost by rote, his expression affixed in loathing, he walked past the body to the wall where multiple devices of torture hung in disarray.

Stupid bastards couldn’t even put their tools away properly.

Without quelling the odium he felt for his family, he stared at a clamp, a knife, various prods and whips . . . and settled on a short, vicious crop. He turned with steely resolve.

When he reached the upstairs again, he saw that Aunt Dory hadn’t moved.

He paused in the doorway, letting his rage ripen. As he calmly entered the dining room, prepared to dispense with his own form of justice, she finally looked up.

At first, her muddy brown eyes went to his clothes, before leaping back to his face. Would she dare mention his garb?

Of course not.

“Now, Oren . . .” Voice trembling, she looked at the crop.

Fat people lacked speed and agility and she couldn’t quite get out of her chair fast enough. “It wasn’t my fault! I didn’t mean to—”

The crop landed across her shoulders, and that felt so good to Oren, so satisfying, that he drew back and landed another, and another.

Her screams exceeded the punishment, bringing Uncle Myer rushing in.

“Oren!”

Seeing the depraved man he called “Uncle” by need, only incensed Oren further. He turned his back on Dory. Myer’s flaccid and overused cock hung out from open unwashed boxers.

A perfect target.

Uncle Myer backed up, but not fast enough. The crop lashed across his lap, cutting into exposed flesh and causing a dehiscent burst of blood and screams.

Uncle Myer fell to his knees. He curled both hands over his privates, but that only allowed Oren to lash his vein-riddled hands, his rawboned arms.

Between his aunt and uncle, the cries were deafening. Breathing hard, detesting the shrill assault on his ears, Oren threw the crop across the room.

“Now,” he snarled in accusation, his voice nowhere as deep as he would have preferred, “we have to dispose of the body.” He looked at Dory. “Tonight.”

Her tears mingling with the snot shining on her upper lip, Dory said, “But, but shouldn’t we wait until—”

Fury spun Oren toward her, and he kicked out at her bulging ankles, her padded shins.

“Wait?” he screamed. “You want to wait?” He kicked her again, and she fell from the chair in gargantuan array. “You know how dead bodies start to stink. If she stiffens up, it’ll be twice as hard.”

“Stiffen up? But . . . she just died.”

Killing her would only cause Oren more grief, so he reined in the desire and tugged on the long, unleashed length of his hair. He didn’t like his hair loose, but at times like this—as in other times—it served its purpose. “It only takes a couple of hours for it to start, and by tomorrow morning she’ll be in a complete state of rigor mortis. Then we’ll have to wait for the proteins in her muscles to decompose. It could take several days.”

Dory blinked at him in horror.

“Do you want a dead, rotting corpse around here for days, Dory?”

She looked so stricken that a sick thrill ran through Oren.

His mouth curled. “Maybe I should put you in the basement with her. In the wine cellar. You could watch the process and maybe then you’d remember it.”

Going white, Dory whimpered, “Oh, Oren, no . . .”

“Of course you’re right,” Uncle Myer said, showing a semblance of gallantry as he tried to come to his wife’s aid. “We’ll do it tonight.” As he spoke, he examined his now swollen and cut member. Seeing the abuse inflicted on the old shriveled appendage, his mouth trembled.

Oren felt small satisfaction at their suffering. But not enough. “Both of you, get downstairs and bundle her up in an old blanket. I’ll decide where to dump her.”

Dory audibly gulped down her relief. “Did you want to . . . change?”

“No. We shouldn’t be spotted, but just in case, better that I be seen like this.” He pushed his hair from his face. “Uncle Myer, you’ll drive. Put her in the trunk of the car in the garage.”

“Of course.” Myer headed for the elevator.

Built under the house and abutting the storage area, the garage gave them the perfect exodus. No one would notice anything other than a family heading out for a drive.

As his imbecilic relatives left him, Oren paced, formulating his plans.

He’d need another body right away.

Already, he shook with the need to dominate, to prove his mastery.

And there was no one here, no one to accept his superior will. His throat burned at the loss, at the anger festering inside him. But he couldn’t kill his relatives. He needed them.

He’d once been a child on his own, passed from one house to another. It had been unbearable. Suffocating.

When they learned of his inheritance from his father, his aunt and uncle had come quickly enough.

And just as quickly, Oren had discovered that they were just as sick and twisted as his mother had been. They were weak, perverted, and they made the perfect façade. He could do as he wished with impunity, and no one would ever know.

No one.

The river. Yes, perfect.

That’s where he’d take her. Let the hungry carp and wide-mouthed catfish feast on her destroyed flesh. In the less savory neighborhoods, he could access the river away from houses, away from humanity.

He’d have to watch out for vagrants and criminals, but he’d take a gun for protection.

Aunt Dory, when threatened, proved an adequate shot.

Thinking of Aunt Dory again spurred his discontent with their excesses. He hoped they both bled. He hoped they hurt ten times more than he was hurting.

It’d be a good lesson for them.

It was no more than they deserved.

Rubbing the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension, Oren went to the basement to supervise. He instructed Uncle Myer to wash and dress properly, just in case they were spotted. He told Aunt Dory to fix her hair and dry her tears. There was no time for self-pity, not for the likes of them.

Within an hour, they were on the road. The headlights of the black Mercedes cut through a dense fog clinging to the roadway. A timorous sliver of moon quailed behind thick gray clouds. Dory and Myer shared pointless chitchat from the front seat, with Myer driving.

In the backseat, closest to the corpse compressed into the cramped trunk space, Oren rode in silence. He pressed his back firmly into the seat, imagining how the body had gotten unnaturally twisted in order to fit, getting closer to it, relishing the nearness.

It gave him some small solace, a taste of dominance, but not enough.

He needed another tramp.

Tomorrow.

Nothing could get in his way. Not even the skinny bitch with the spooky, perspicacious eyes.

After a writing marathon that ended with several completed chapters and filled her small room with the actuating scents of ink, paper, and idealism, Gaby stowed her tools in the special storage box she’d procured for just that purpose. The lockbox, fashioned to withstand fire and attempts at theft, held her treasures in the safest manner possible to one like her.

Though she’d been locked away in her room all day, writing without consideration for breakfast or lunch, no one could guess why. No one could know that she translated heinous reality into a fictionalized account of her pathetic life.

She was Servant, the female lead in her graphic novels. Romanticized surely, softened and more heroic, more human—just as normal people insisted their idols be. The series had proven mega-popular with the underground crowd.

And then it had proven popular with everyone.

No one realized that Gaby wrote and illustrated the stories. That she was the stories.

Far as she knew, no one even suspected her of being more than a homely, lonely, antagonistic bitch.

Except Luther.

Glancing out the window, Gaby saw that the day had melted away. He would be visiting her soon.

Intrusive bastard.

Real-life hero.

Gaby closed her eyes, despondent. Had Luther insisted on seeing her today because, as he’d said, he missed her? Or because he distrusted her?

Perhaps both?

Edgy with conflicting emotion, Gaby tucked the lockbox into a camouflaged niche carved into her box spring, and straightened her covers. As she exited the room that was as circumscribed as her existence, she double locked the reinforced door. With her privacy secured, she headed out into the public hallway.

The motel served as a safe place for assignations all day long, but at this time of early evening, things were just starting to heat up. Gaby heard faked moans, unenthusiastic laughter, and the more distinct sounds of flesh slapping on flesh.

She paused, watching the lewd displays happening in the stairway, down in the foyer, in an open room. When she’d first moved to the motel, curiosity had kept her watching.

Now, there was nothing new for her to see.

Sex, bought and paid for, lost its luster early on.

The more she observed, the more sadness infiltrated her soul.

Tuning out the acquainted sounds of business, she decided to station herself on the middle floor where she could keep an eye on the girls until Luther’s arrival. No need to sit out in the heat. When a cop showed up near a whorehouse, it caused a buzz; she’d know.

Putting in her tiny earphones and turning on the digital audioplayer, Gaby settled back against the peeling wallpaper.

She enjoyed the music Luther had given her as a gift. She never tired of listening to it. So she could hear any cries of distress, need, or intrusion, she kept the volume low.

Usually the music lent her a strange sort of equanimity, lulling her, quieting her turbulent disquiet.

Tonight, her thoughts raged.

Residue from yesterday’s conflict?

Gaby dismissed that thought almost as soon as she had it. Mort would tell her later if the man survived, and even if he didn’t, she couldn’t care. The more she accepted her duties, the less they staggered her.

The man had wanted her dead. He’d likely killed before.

The strength of his muddy, convulsing aura exposed his laziness. The rotted black holes added an indication of severe imbalance, both in morals and mental ability. The man was a bottom-feeder, and if he passed, the world would be a better place.

No, she didn’t care. More likely Carver’s audacity caused her tension.

How dare that bastard hire another to have her snuffed? He was such a chicken-shit moron.

For underestimating her in such a big way, Carver would pay.

Maybe. If the mood struck her. If not . . .

Distracted from her ruminations, Gaby watched a suited, middle-class man climb the stairs with Bliss, one of the younger hookers.

Bliss didn’t belong here, but then, who did?

No one.

Yet here they were: Gaby; the hookers who’d accepted her; the pimps who tolerated her; the men who, thanks to sickness, debauchery, loneliness, or misguided emotion, sought them out.

And Luther.

God knew he belonged here least of all.

He came through a need to right wrongs, to prevent injustice.

To visit her.

Her jaw tightened. Looking like a painted angel and chatting like a magpie, Bliss climbed the stairs with the man’s hand held in hers. He wore an anticipatory smile on his smug face.

When they neared Gaby, she ensured the john felt her gaze; he stiffened in alarm.

Gaby didn’t give a shit.

She wanted the slimeball to feel her warning.

Hurt Bliss, and you’ll pay.

Gaby was . . . partial to Bliss. Maybe because of her young age. Maybe because Gaby knew her better than she knew the others.

Possibly it was because in some small, indefinable way, Gaby recognized something of herself in Bliss. That didn’t make sense, but then, nothing of her life could be rationalized.

Given the heat of Gaby’s stare, Bliss had to take a moment to soothe the man before leading him to a meager room. After she got him in the door, Bliss leaned out, gave Gaby a goofy, teasing look of reprimand, and blew her a kiss.

It was something a younger sister might have done, and it pained Gaby as much as an arrow through her heart.

Not that she’d ever let Bliss know.

When the door closed, Gaby went back to her contemplation of Carver. Hard music filled her ears, pulsing through her veins, finding a cadence with her angered heartbeat.

She decided that if she got bored and needed the exercise, she’d find Carver and . . .

A swift bolt of tension impaled her, burning her soul and then spiraling into her veins with awesome speed until every part of her body burned with acute agony. The sensation was familiar, and grindingly painful.

It gained momentum, gnashing Gaby’s muscles, boring into her heart.

Ah. So this was why she’d felt the tension.

Only one thing ever delivered on her this prodigious pain: Tonight, she had deific duties to attend.

Loosing the ear pieces from her ears, Gaby sucked in deep breaths until she could isolate the pain, compartmentalize it for later use. She forced her constricted muscles to flex and pushed up to stand on her feet.

It looked like her meeting with Luther would have to be postponed.

Luther would be pissed.

And truthfully, she’d miss him. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but she’d looked forward to seeing him again.

Focusing on Luther better enabled her to bridle the pain, keeping the worst of it at bay.

In the furthest reaches of her mind, she heard one of the hookers saying, “Gaby?” And then with very real caring: “Oh God. What’s wrong with her? What should we do?”

Fuck. Did her face look different?

One of the more distressing things to come from her relationships with Luther and Mort was the realization that it wasn’t only evil incarnates who showed their authentic natures through bodily appearance.

Gaby also suffered the affliction. By shared accounts, when called to duty, she looked different. Luther swore she wasn’t hideous, just altered in some way he could never elucidate.

Mort, when seeing her thus, was frightened.

Knowing she had to remove herself from the women before they witnessed too much, became too suspicious, Gaby swallowed hard and managed to whisper, “Butt out. I’m fine.”

“Don’t be silly, Gaby,” Betty said with her thick accent. “You’re sick. I can see it. So what can I do?”

Sick? Well, that was preferable to beastly. “I’m fine, I tell you.”

“You ain’t,” Tiff insisted. “Come to my room. I’ll—”

Bliss’s softer voice interrupted the others. “Gaby? What’s happenin’? How can I help?”

Gaby dredged up a believable snicker, and a thick dose of vitriol. “Like I need help from any of you? Not likely.” In a daze, guided only by her inner sight, Gaby started on her way.

“Stubborn to the bitter end,” Betty lamented.

“And proud,” Bliss added.

“Hey,” a guy called out. “I ain’t paying for this!”

Gaby ignored them all.

Now that she’d given in to the summons, each footfall grew stronger, more determined than the one before it. Her muscles became more fluid, her movements faster, more agile.

She left the lugubrious presence of the motel and stepped into hazy sunlight congested with street noise, human virulence, and malodorous dormancy.

No incarnation of evil lurked about.

Instinctively, Gaby knew that she needed her car. The distance this time would be too far to traverse on foot. For protective purposes, Gaby kept her Ford Falcon parked well away from the motel. Still, with God-enhanced speed on her side, she reached it in only minutes. Keys hidden in the hub-cap kept her from having to carry them on her person.

No one messed with her car.

Why would they? Despite the automobile’s reliable runningcondition, it looked as deserted, as broken as any rust-ravaged heap in the junkyard.

Because a speeding car was more obvious than a woman racing on foot, Gaby worried whenever she had to drive to a destination.

She had no driver’s license.

No IDs at all.

The less anyone knew of her, the simpler her complicated existence became. She had to trust that God would guide her safely, as He always had, to wherever she needed to be.

It was unclear to Gaby just how far she could travel within a paladin’s duty. Atrocities happened around the world; she felt only those in her small corner of society. If she couldn’t reach the malefactor, she couldn’t stop the evil committed.

It was a huge conflict in the cycle of what she did, how she justified her actions. If her ability wasn’t far-reaching, how much did her existence really matter?

As if to wring the doubts from her consciousness, more pain squeezed through her. Gaby gave in to the agony so that it could help her focus.

Navigating by divine intervention, she made the journey by rote, unseeing and unhearing. Her muscles knotted and wrung in agony, in the urgency of the moment.

The sun began its descent just as she reached the bank of a slow-moving, murky river. Dusk left everything dirty, cheerless and gray. Coasting her car up alongside a tree, Gaby put it in park and turned off the engine.

Through the distortion of her ability, her gift, she saw nothing amiss. Clouds rolled in. The rippling surface of the river turned silver.

Her pain receded—and under the circumstances, that wasn’t good at all.

Fresh alarm replaced the hurt; only two things ever caused Gaby’s suffering to abate: Luther’s close proximity, or a missed opportunity.

Breath catching and knife in hand, Gaby jerked around in her seat, looking out the rear window, searching the landscape, the prickling of scrub brush and dead trees. She saw wide-open spaces. There was no way for Luther to be nearby without her seeing him.

Relief turned her spine to jelly and she slumped almost boneless in her seat. She didn’t want Luther to see her like this—ugly, murderous.

More capable than any human being should be or could be.

The abnormal effect Luther had on her would always leave her agitated. He got physically close, and despite the veil of God’s emphatic instructions, she saw more clearly.

Rather than the evil within, she saw the human side of her target.

She saw the destruction she wreaked.

She saw her own vulnerability.

Luther affected her as no one ever had. He softened her, robbing her of a crucial edge.

During weaker moments, Gaby wanted to thank him for that. But when reality crashed around her, she knew it was far too dangerous to let him disturb her vantage over iniquity.

Shaking her head to clear Luther from her thoughts, Gaby opened her car door and stepped out. Her knees still felt weak, but a humid breeze struck her, thick with the foul odors of the river, and that motivated her.

As if it had never been, her pain evaporated altogether, leaving her sick at heart and muddled in spirit.

Raw with regret.

She was too late—but how could that be? It had never happened before.

She was always on time. Tonight, she hadn’t even struggled with the summons. The whores hadn’t let her. They were there, observing her, leaving her no choice but to give in and comply before they saw more than they could ever comprehend.

So . . . what did it mean?

Had God given her a unique directive? Perhaps, this time, He wanted something aberrant, something other than a total destruction of evil about to corrupt.

As silent as a wraith, Gaby walked away from the car toward the riverbank, awaiting guidance with each step. The heels of her boots sank into the loamy soil. Weeds prickled her ankles. Mosquitoes thought her a feast and dined on her flesh with gusto.

Gaby searched the riverbank, the rocks, the washed-up tree limbs, swirling moss and reeds . . .

Oh God. She went stock-still. She’d seen plenty of dead, massacred bodies.

She’d done the massacring herself.

But this . . . this was different.

The body—a bloated, waterlogged sponge on the shoreline—wasn’t dead by her hand. Someone had killed, and dumped the body, and God sent her to . . . what?

Find a murderer?

Maybe before more murders took place?

Okay, fine. But then, why the awful, wracking pain? Why the urgency?

From a distance, Gaby could tell that the body had been in the river for the better part of a day. There was nothing urgent in a rotting corpse.

Unless it was someone she’d recognize.

Vision narrowing, Gaby stared at the white body while a litany raced around her mind. Please, don’t let it be Luther. Please, don’t let it be Mort.

She calmed herself and studied what she could see—a rounded hip, a mutilated breast.

Not a man, but a woman.

The stench of decayed fish and humid refuse burned Gaby’s nostrils as she inhaled, exhaled, breathed in again.

Feet leaden with dread, Gaby crept closer. Long slimy fingers of green sea moss teased over the carious body, impelled on each lapping wave, tickling, receding, rolling in and over it again, and again.

Trepidation took a toll. Gaby forced the approach, and the human form became more distinguishable. Arms. Legs.

Open, unseeing eyes.

The torso and thighs were badly cut. All over. Long, thin slices made with a very sharp blade.

A blade not unlike her own.

Carver? Was the bastard sending her a message? Had he killed an innocent woman because he couldn’t kill Gaby?

Mottled bruises almost disguised the features of the deceased, but Gaby recognized her.

Not just any woman, but a woman she knew.

One of the hookers.

An . . . acquaintance, but not really a friend.

Blinking hard and fast, Gaby forced herself to stay there, to take it all in.

Could Carver have done this?

And if so, why?

If not Carver, then . . . the problem multiplied exponentially.

Long bleached hair swam on the constantly moving surface of the river, catching on reeds, hiding tiny fish that pecked at the rotting flesh.

Gaby sniffed, remembering how the other hookers had told the woman that her hair was over-bleached, that it felt like straw. Now, floating around the victim, the hair looked so soft.

A cloudy film covered the open eyes, but Gaby could see that they were dark brown. It was an odd combination, one she wouldn’t forget.

She sniffed again, tasting the atrocity of the scene before her. Lucy. Poor, poor Lucy. Her death had been gruesome. Given the shape of the corpse, she’d suffered, a lot.

Gaby went from gasping in upset, to straightening tall and strong with restorative outrage. Somehow, some way, she’d find out who did this, and regardless if it was Carver or not, she would avenge Lucy.

That’s why God had sent her here, she was sure. To let her know. To make her aware.

To put her on guard and to prepare her to act.

Gaby said a final farewell to the woman she hadn’t known well, but had pitied all the same. She didn’t touch the body. She didn’t dare.

Her insides clenched and her guts gnarled. She looked around, but this particular section of river was far from picturesque. There were no riverboats, no fancy hotels or restaurants.

Along the shore, remnants of fishing excursions remained: rotted carp heads, a broken reel, foam cups, and a broken lawn chair. Farther out, empty railroad tracks led to nowhere that she could see. In the distance, tall stacks from a factory billowed thick white smoke in the darkening sky.

There was no place for someone to hide, but then, at this deserted location, secrecy wouldn’t be necessary.

Had the body been dumped here, or had it floated here?

For one of the very few times in her life, Gaby wished for the impossible—she wished for company.

She wanted Luther. He’d know what to do.

That made her snort. Luther would take her into custody first, and ask questions later.

Mind made up, Gaby backed away from the grisly scene. Hating herself and her necessary choices that, at this particular moment, felt cowardly, she went to her car. Sitting inside the open door, she removed her boots and checked the soles for any evidence of dirt or debris.

Once they were clean, she started the engine and drove in the opposite direction from the motel where she resided. It’d be safer for her to take care of business in a different part of town.

She found a self-serve carwash and took infinite care in cleaning her shambles of a vehicle, making sure all river mud or indigenous weeds had been removed. There was no one around to see her, no one to later identify her.

The moon crowned the black sky, again reminding her that she was supposed to meet Luther. Now, there was no reason to rush. He’d be too busy to concern himself with her.

On a dark, dangerous stretch of road, Gaby stopped at a pay phone. She called the police station and reported the body, giving the sparest of details, and disguising her voice.

When the officer started to ask questions, she hung up and quickly drove away. Taking her time, she coasted through the slums, making note of children still at play, drug exchanges, a few fights.

By the time she parked the Falcon in the lot, the night dwellers had crawled out like cockroaches, crowding every corner, watching every movement for an advantage over another.

During Gaby’s walk toward the motel, a tall black man hailed her, offering her pills, needles, or whatever else she might need.

Burning with hatred, sick over Lucy’s fate, Gaby fixed her gaze on his, letting him feel what she felt. He backed up several steps, spewed a few vicious insults her way, and loped off. Someone laughed. Another person screamed.

Gaby kept walking. There were people who deserved to suffer, and she sensed this was one of those people.

Dreading it, steeped in guilt, Gaby approached the front of the motel. She had lost one of them when she’d made it her duty to keep them safe. She’d failed.

And Lucy had suffered because of it.

As one set of whores exited the motel, several others went in. They stayed busy hustling for johns, harassing those who turned them down, all in all faking an enjoyment that Gaby knew they couldn’t feel.

With little conversation, she started to go up to her room. Bliss stopped her. “Gaby?”

She turned, saw Bliss’s upset, and jumped on the opportunity to indulge in destruction. “What’s the matter?” Gaby stomped toward her. “Did someone do something to you?”

Bliss blinked at her ferocity before twittering a laugh. “No, silly, it’s nothing like that. I’ve had a good night.”

Meaning she’d made an adequate amount of cash. Gaby’s guts burned. “Then what is it?”

Reaching out to touch Gaby’s shoulder, Bliss said, “I just wanted to ask about you. If you’re okay.”

Gaby reared back. What the hell? “Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I dunno. You looked pretty sick before and now you look kinda sad. It’s not like you.”

Looking beyond Bliss, Gaby saw Jimbo standing alone, taking in the exchange with suspicion. Overall, Jimbo treated the women no differently than they expected. Gaby had yet to see him cross the proverbial line, to do anything to engage her wrath.

Wrapping her fingers around Bliss’s upper arm, Gaby pulled her farther away from the bright streetlamp and into the dark shadows of a door overhang. An outraged cat screeched and vaulted away.

Jerking in startled surprise, Bliss screeched, too. “Ohmigod. That poor l’il kitty scared me half to death.” She knelt down and made kissing noises. “Here, kitty, kitty. I won’t hurt you.”

Impatient, Gaby said, “The cat’s gone, Bliss.”

“Did it look hungry to you?” she asked as she straightened.

Compassion got a stranglehold on Gaby, all because Bliss was worried about the animal. Not for herself. Not for a lifestyle that put her in peril against nutcases and disease alike. But for a stray cat.

Another small piece of her heart warmed, melted, and turned to mush. Taking Bliss’s arm to regain her attention, Gaby said, “I need to know something, Bliss.” She cleared her throat, and her mind, and got right to the point. “When’s the last time you saw Lucy?”