Page 72 of You've Got Hate Mail
Interesting.
They must have a secret hiding space.
And probably an accomplice.
This smells like a job for someone who also had a lot of secret hiding places as a kid, even if all of my accomplices were imaginary.
Fluffy meows at me.
I look down at her sturdy black-white-and-orange body and smile. “Morning, kitty.”
And then I notice where I’m standing.
I’m in a kitchen with slate tile floors, cedarwood cabinets, and granite countertops with flecks of tan, brown, and burgundy.
The oven, fridge, and dishwasher are all stainless steel, though the fridge is covered with drawings and wallet-sized photos of Lavender. A coffee maker and KitchenAid mixer sit on the countertop near the sink, and there’s also a large ceramic bowl with tangerines and oranges next to a matching crock holding cooking utensils.
The kitchen leads into a wood-plank floor living room with oversized brown leather furniture adorned with colorful throw pillows and blankets in bright pinks and purples. There’s a rug beneath a simple wooden coffee table that’s scattered with drawings and a juice box and three Play-Doh containers. Family photos are hung on one wall, and a sliding glass door on another wall overlooks the acres of grapevines. There’s a hallway branching off between the two rooms that I assume leads to the bedrooms.
“This is lovely,” I whisper to Heath.
Downstairs is nice, but far more basic, with laminate flooring, simple furniture, a kitchenette out of an IKEA catalog, and prints of rainy Paris days hung on the walls around the TV.
But this level—it’s elegant while also maintaining a homey feel.
Not so upscale that Lavender can’t be a kid here.
Heath grunts. “I’m gonna hop in the shower. Help yourself to coffee or food or whatever. And don’t take your eyes off the cat.”
I salute him. “You got it, boss.”
You got it, boss?
I have issues.
“Thanks again.” He pads softly down the hallway.
And I wander through the kitchen to watch, because I don’t notice the mirror at the end of the hallway that lets him see me watching until it’s too late.
He makes eye contact with me in the mirror, points to a doorway, and mouths what seems to beLavender’s room.
I nod like my face isn’t beet red at being caught ogling his ass, and he disappears into the doorway on the other side of the hallway from his daughter’s room.
“That went well,” I whisper to Fluffy, only to realize Fluffy has disappeared.
Shit.
“Fluffy?” I whisper.
No answer.
Like I’d expect any less of a cat that refused to budge off the porch over at the main house last night.
We’re still not sure how she got there. Walking across the fields isn’t something you expect Fluffy to do on her own. I don’t know the cat well, but I know her well enough to know she’s constitutionally incapable of wanting to move if she doesn’t have to.
Or, you know, if there’s not food involved. Apparently in Lav’s room.
“Fluffy?” I whisper again, looking everywhere I can think to look in the kitchen and living room.
