“He didn’t even leave a note. No explanation. Just sorry.”
“Do you want me to stay the night? Renly will understand, and we can hang out and get drunk and watch movies. I mean, it sounds as reasonable a plan as any, don’t you think?”
I laugh despite myself. “It sounds like an amazing plan, but all I want is to finish this whiskey and go to bed. What’s that saying? Even if tomorrow isn’t a better day at least it’s a different one?”
Abby rolls her eyes. “That’s not the way the saying goes, and tomorrow will be a better day.”
“Honestly, I think by default it has to be. The only way to go is up.”
“Cheers to that,” she says, and we clink glasses.
“Can you hang out for a little bit? Maybe watch some mindless television?”
“Of course. I can,” Abby says, and I turn on the television. I scroll through the streaming services until we come across The IT Crowd, and she squeals for me to stop. “It’s a hoot,” she promises, when I tell her I’ve never heard of it. And she’s right. It’s not only funny, but it’s clear why she loves it, what with working with computers herself.
“It’s great,” I tell her after we finish the third episode. “But I think I’m televisioned out.”
”Do you want me to go? Or I can stay and make you some food. Distract you. I can stay the whole night if you need me to. Truly.”
I shake my head. “No. Seriously. I’m fine. It means a lot that you came over. Tell Renly that I’m glad he was there today. I know that Red must be losing his mind. He was more married to Mel than I was, when you think about it.”
“There are all sorts of partnerships. And all sorts of friendships.”
I’d been thinking that very thing. Because Mel and Red and I had been like a perfect trifecta during college. And back in those days I’d been absolutely certain how it would work out for all of us. Funny how things never seem to go as you planned them.
She reaches down and scratches Rambo’s ears. He’d disappeared when she came in, but now that he’s decided that Abby—who he knows well—won’t be attacking him anytime soon, he’s decided to emerge.
“Hey there, Rambo.” When she bends over and picks him up, the cat immediately goes boneless, hanging completely limp until she deposits him in her lap. “Just a quick scratch behind the ears, then I have to go.”
“You embarrass him every time you do that. He supposed to be the big, tough warrior of the house. You pet and stroke him like he’s a little baby.”
She bends down and nuzzles her nose against his fluffy cat forehead. “He’s my wittle snooker-wookums,” she says in a baby voice, making me laugh. She tilts her head sideways and grins at me. “I guess my work here is done. This one will look after you the rest of the night?”
“I promise you, he is very good at helping take my mind off things.”
“Promise to call me if you need anything.”
“Swear,” I say, then carry the cat as we walked to the door. I see Abby out, but ignore Rambo’s chomping at the bit to do the same. We do let him outside on occasion, but only in the backyard. We have a fence made of corrugated steel that matches the distillery, and it’s impossible for a cat to climb. He goes out, sleeps on the concrete patio, and then comes inside feeling like he’s made his rounds and is protecting home and hearth.
Now though, he’s staying inside for his dinner. I close the front door and follow him into the kitchen.
He knows the routine as well as I do.
“I’m sorry to tell you, baby kitty, but your daddy won’t be coming back.”
I realize tears are trickling down my cheeks as I put his cat food on a platter. I don’t know how to handle this frustration. This anger at knowing that there was something going on with Mel. That if he’d just talked to me, maybe I could’ve helped him. At least steered him toward therapy.
Because there was something going on, just like I thought. Maybe not an affair, though. He didn’t have a history of depression, but maybe something happened that he never told me about. Or maybe it really was an affair, and he got his heart broken and felt trapped with me.
Bottom line? I don’t know. And the not knowing is killing me.
I look down at Rambo. Sometimes, I think it really would be nice to be a cat.
With a sigh, I pour myself a little bit more whiskey, just because it will help me sleep. I head toward the back door, calling for the cat. “If you want to do outside time today, now’s your chance. I’m going to bed early, and you’re going to be stuck inside if you don’t do it now. I’ll give you fifteen minutes and then you’re coming back in.”
As if he understands every word I said, he trots over to the door. I let him out, close only the screen door so that I can hear if he howls at something, then set the timer that sits on the table by the back door. He uses that time to sniff the flowers, chase the birds, and sprawl on the concrete, still warm from the day.
While he’s in kitty heaven, I eat ice cream. It’s not my usual dinner, but today I need it. Heaps of vanilla with chocolate sauce drizzled all over it.
I’m licking the spoon when the timer goes off, and glance over to see that he’s already standing at the screen.
Who says you can’t train a cat?
He meows, lower and more growly than his usual voice, and I wonder if this isn’t one of those evenings where he can sense the dog next door.
“What’s up, buddy?” I ask as I push open the screen. I expect him to saunter over the threshold as always. Instead, Rambo hisses, then races inside the house, brushing my legs and actually making me stumble.
I turn, watching him run. “What are you—”
My words turn into a gasp as someone grabs my wrist and yanks me outside, then slams me back into the side of the house. My attacker is dressed all in black from head to toe, and he has a knife pressed against my throat.
My heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear my thoughts much less what my attacker is saying.
“Where are they?” he says in a voice low and gravelly. “Where is the package your husband took from us?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” About six-two, I think. Raspy voice. Brown eyes.
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not. I swear.” I hear the tremor in my voice. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“You damn well better find out, bitch.” He takes the knife, and before I even realize what’s happening, he flicks my upper lip. The blade is so sharp I barely feel it, but I can immediately taste the blood, and go rigid with fear.
“Please, I—”
He flips me around and tosses me back inside. I stumble to my knees, and by the time I’ve righted myself, he’s gone.
I take five quick, deep breaths, then scramble for the back door. I close it, then lock it, then simply stand there, my body numb with a combination of fear and relief. I want to go outside and see how he got into the yard. He must have used bolt cutters on the gate’s padlock. Or used a ladder to get over the steel fencing. But there’s no way I’m going outside right now.
I take another deep breath, then go into my bedroom and get the handgun I keep there. My ex-military father started taking me to the range when I was ten years old. He taught me gun safety and how to shoot straight. But, dammit, you never seem to have a gun on your person when you need one.