“Well, try doing it with a better attitude. If you keep up like this, you’ll be bitter. I have two bitter sisters. I know what you’ll find at the end of that road, and it isn’t pretty.”
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
He smirked. “You do that.” He hesitated at the door that led downstairs. “Hunter’s gone, right?”
I narrowed my eyes, suspicious. “How long do you think you’re going to be able to hide from him?”
“I’m not hiding. That’s a ridiculous statement.”
He was never going to own up to his actions. Not on this one. I was too tired to press him, though. “He’s gone. Trust me. His girlfriend isn’t the type to sit in the parking lot and stake it out. You can escape.”
“I’m not escaping. I just ... don’t like cops.”
That was news to me. “You should probably take advantage of this window and run.”
“It’s the end of my shift. I’m going home. It has nothing to do with Hunter.”
I didn’t believe him. “Have a good rest of your day.”
“You too. Don’t be late for work tomorrow.”
“I won’t.” I’d learned my lesson. I had no intention of leaving my apartment tonight. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll be the one with the coffee.”
I SPENT THE REST OF THE AFTERNOON reading and lazing about. In the city, I always felt as if I couldn’t find enough hours in the day to get everything done. Here, back home, I had time to just sit and think. Self-reflection was allowed, though it wasn’t how I wanted to spend my time.
I moved my pity party to the balcony. The restaurant had closed two hours earlier and it was eerily silent as I stared at the trees behind the storage building. The darkness allowed me to think about the events of the past few days ... and it wasn’t a pleasant reverie.
My biggest issue was the dream this morning. No matter how I tried to shake it, there was a worry in the back of my mind that it had really happened. It was ridiculous, of course. I hadn’t been floating over my bed. I most certainly hadn’t been swimming through the air like the world’s most uncoordinated fairy. It had to be a dream.
A very realistic dream.
Whispers of magical powers weren’t uncommon in this area. Given the trick Hemlock Cove had managed to pull off — seriously, their rebranding efforts had the town thriving when others in the area were dying — it was a common topic of conversation. My great-grandmother decided on the name for the restaurant. There were numerous stories as to why she chose the name, some so wild there was no way they could be true.
My great-grandfather was a milquetoast. I would never come out and say that to my grandfather, but all the stories painted him as a bland man who sat back and let his wife have her way. My great-grandmother, on the other hand, was a spitfire. She did what she wanted, when she wanted, and didn’t care if society at the time believed men should be in charge. She was in charge, and no one could tell her otherwise.
She’d named the restaurant long before Hemlock Cove turned to a witch theme to keep commerce humming. In fact, she’d left the area long before the rebranding talk even started. When she returned to town every summer — I made a mental note to check when her visit would happen this year — she always headed to Hemlock Cove for a day or two. She still had friends there, and even rented a room in a bed and breakfast where one of those friends resided.
I still didn’t understand the name. Two Broomsticks. It was witchy, which was a great benefit given the overflow of tourists flocking to Hemlock Cove, but it seemed out of place for the years before witches were a thing. I’d asked my grandfather about it a time or two, but he always shook his head and turned dark when I brought up the topic.
“Ask your great-grandmother.” That’s all he would bark. This year, when she finally showed up for her visit and upended our lives, I would ask her. I honestly cared enough to hear the answer.
I was just about ready to call it a night and turn in early — after the past two nights, a full ten hours of sleep sounded heavenly — but a hint of movement near the storage building caught my attention.
My first reaction was fear as my heart lodged in my throat. After a few seconds of watching, though, I realized that whatever was down there was too small to be a threat. Even if it was a rat, it was hardly something to fear.
The creature finally darted out into the alley under the streetlight, allowing me to get a gander. My heart pinched for a different reason this time. It was a kitten. A very tiny kitten.
I put my hands on the balcony railing and leaned over, looking for an adult cat. I knew there were a bunch of cats that hung out in the woods behind the storage building. They liked to forage the dumpster. Some of them were quite fat because they lived the high life here. Of course, some of them died horrible deaths because they were feral and had to survive winters.
I watched the kitten play a full five minutes before I made up my mind. It seemed happy chasing bugs in the darkness, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t at least try to do something. The alley behind the restaurant was busy and those big delivery trucks wouldn’t stop for a small animal.
I used the external steps to approach the kitten. I expected him to take off in the opposite direction when he saw me. He’d probably scatter for the woods the second he noticed me. Instead, he merely stared, as if daring me to approach.
“Hey, buddy.” I flashed a smile even though it was a wasted effort. It’s not as if the kitten could read facial expressions. “What are you doing out here?”
The kitten batted at my hand when I reached out to scoop him up. It wasn’t much of a fight. When I grabbed him on the second attempt, he shot me a dirty look — until I started scratching behind his ears. Then, suddenly, he was all cuddles and purrs.
Crap. Most feral cats — even tiny kittens — hated humans. This one seemed to crave human contact.
“Do you belong to someone?” I stared into the kitten’s eyes. His fur was matted, but he looked relatively healthy, other than being a bit thin. I knew I couldn’t leave him out here. I would have to hold onto him for the night and then take him to the animal shelter the following day. At least then he would have a chance at a home.
“Well, I have some tuna upstairs,” I said uncertainly. “How about some food and a place to sleep for the night? I’ll help you move along the chain tomorrow.”
The kitten licked my chin, melting my resolve a bit. “I’m not keeping you,” I warned, deadly serious. “My grandfather will never let me have a cat above the restaurant.”
A noise over my left shoulder caused me to jerk, clutching the kitten closer to my chest. When I peered in that direction, I found nothing — and yet I felt something. There were eyes on me, and they didn’t feel like they were of the feline variety. In fact, I was positive it wasn’t an animal watching me. The pricking on my skin made me feel something bad was about to happen.
“We’ll keep talking about this upstairs,” I reassured the kitten, scurrying toward the steps that led to the balcony. I didn’t know why I was suddenly so fearful, but every fiber in my being was screaming for me to find safety.