Page 13 of Between the Lines

“Yeah, I know.” I unlock the door and push it open.

She steps inside, brushing past me and muttering a quiet thanks.

Fia walks swiftly down the hall, and something scatters past me, rubbing my ankle.

The tiny brown cat winds through Fia’s legs as she walks into an open, sunny kitchen and living room.

At the threshold, I pause, taking in the room filled with baskets of books and half-finished scarves with knitting needles still in them. I almost trip on a box with scraggly handwriting—Dog Shelter Donations.

Did she say she lives here alone?

Fia kicks a balled-up blanket out of the way and sets her daughter into a playpen. The cat jumps in with her.

Daisy immediately grabs the cat’s tail.

“Uh-uh, Daisy!” Fia clicks her tongue, lifting her eyebrows. The toddler drops it. “Hamburger, you did that to yourself, dude. You know she’s going to try to eat you if you let her.”

“Hamburger?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Fia stares at me like she’d forgot I was even there. “My cat.”

I hold my tongue. I’m here to look at her roof, not find out the backstory about her pets. She fills me in anyway.

“I found him eating a McDonald’s burger on the sidewalk six months ago.”

“So what, you just took him in?” I ask, tilting my head.

Fia’s eyes narrow like I’m a monster. “What was I going to do, let him live on the streets? He needed me.” She looks down at the cat. “Now he lives here, where he has become the meal for my daughter.”

I can’t be sure if she’s joking or not, so I move on.

Boundaries.

“I don’t want to waste your time, so why don’t you show me what’s going on.”

She glances at Daisy, then back at me. “Okay, follow me real quick.”

Halfway up the stairs, where I step over stacks of books, a laundry basket, and countless toys, she pauses, peering over her shoulder at me.

“No offense, but are you qualified to do this?” she asks, sizing me up.

“What, you think I’m just a rich pretty boy?” I reply dryly.

She sputters, face turning red, and stomps ahead.

“Yes,” I call after her, following her down the second-floor hallway. “Before Good Grinds, I was a construction manager, specializing in residential repairs. So yeah, I know what I’m looking at.”

“Huh,” is all she says before stopping in the long sunlit space. Fia throws her arms out like she’s unveiling a masterpiece. Seven metal pots line the hallway—all of them arranged under pretty extensive leaks.

Gaping holes dot the ceiling, the paint peeling back, turning brown at the edges.

“Damn,” I murmur.

“Well, you saw the papers, you know what they are saying I need done.” She gives me a pointed look.

“Can I take a look in the attic?”

As soon as Fia opens her mouth, a tiny shriek sounds from downstairs.