Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 100608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
I have to get to the bottom of this.
Dante and his family’s safety are riding on my ability to find the culprit.
“Jax,” Cato sings as he clomps down the stairs. “I have a present for you.”
Brie giggles but then apologizes profusely to whoever she’s talking to on the phone. I tear my gaze from my computer screen, curious to see what sort of present Cato has this time. He’s the prince of horrible gift giving. It’s always something hideous, unwanted, or just plain weird.
“I can’t wait,” I deadpan.
He rounds the corner and walks toward my desk, an orange tabby cat in his arms. It’s missing an eye and seems as though it has seen better days.
“That better not be my present,” I grumble, motioning to my lazy, sleeping dog on the floor between me and Brie. “I already have a pet.”
Cato’s dark hair is sticking up high on top of his head in some strange model way only he can get away with. The black infinity scarf he’s wearing over a fitted light gray long-sleeved shirt is covered in cat hair. His red denim pants are glued to his skin, leaving nothing to the imagination.
“You can look at that later,” he teases, drawing my gaze back up to his playful gaze.
I roll my eyes at him. “You shouldn’t wear stuff that forces people to look at that.”
“It’s the only way I can get a boyfriend.” He smirks. “Enough about my dick. Look what I found by the BFB fish market.”
The fish market is situated almost directly across the street from his place on old condo row. Sometimes, when visiting him and if the wind is blowing just right, you can smell the unmistakable scent of raw fish, much to my wannabe vegan friend’s horror.
“You know I can’t take that cat,” I gripe as he steps over Ox and comes toward me. “One pet is enough.”
“What about Zak? He’s in the apartment. This little gal would love the apartment life.”
“Maybe she loved the fish market life, but you ruined that.”
Cato rolls his eyes. “She’s scrawny and meant to be a princess. Those cats over there are mean and would have impregnated her against her will had I not come to her rescue.” He hands the cat to me. “You can’t say no once you hold her.”
Unlike most cats who don’t like new people, this one purrs loudly and clings to my sweater as though she enjoys the warmth.
“Why do you do this to me?” I complain, softly stroking the cat.
“Because you’re weak and this cat needs a home with someone good. Who better than the sheriff of Brigs Ferry Bay?”
“I don’t know that I’m that good of a sheriff.” I don’t meet his stare and instead inspect the eyeless cat up close. Her one good eye is bright green and she studies me intently with it.
Pretty soon, Cato is going to have to change his business name from And Puppies! to And Poor, Pitiful Kittens!…
Before Cato can respond, Brie joins us, adding her two cents in. “You’re the best sheriff I know. Besides, you can’t take those crimes so hard. It happens in most towns. We’re just not used to it. You’ve been working tirelessly on the arson case for days now. You’re a great sheriff. I don’t want to hear any more of that negativity. Now give me my niece.”
I start to pull the cat off my chest to hand her to Brie, but the thing makes a godawful whining sound. “She likes it here,” I mutter, petting the poor thing’s back so she’ll calm back down. “Go find your own one-eyed furball.”
“Plenty more down at the fish market,” Cato says, laughing. “What are we naming her? Peaches? Punkin? OJ?”
“She’s a cat, not a fruit. I think we should call her Pirate.”
“Ew. No. Pirate is a boy name,” Cato argues. “She’s too precious for a name like Pirate.”
“You like the name Pirate?” I ask my cat, ignoring Cato. “Do they make eyepatches for cats?”
“You can’t put an eyepatch on that poor thing.” Cato huffs and then glances at Brie. “What have you been up to lately, Miss Thang? You’ve stood me up twice this week because ‘something came up,’ which is code for you’re getting laid.”
Brie’s cheeks turn pink. “I…what do you…I’m not sure…”
Cato looks at me, rolling his eyes. “Am I right?”
“That’s certainly her guilty face,” I agree. “Question is, who’s the lucky guy?”
“I hate you both,” Brie mutters. “I need to get back to work.”
“No way!” Cato grabs her wrist so she won’t escape our interrogation. “Not until you tell us who you’ve been bumping uglies with.”
She gnaws on her bottom lip, shifting from one foot to the other. “I’m afraid to say.”
“That means he’s old!” Cato cackles. “Am I right?”
“It means whoever it is, we don’t like him.” I narrow my eyes at my deputy. “Please for the love of God tell me it’s not Hank.”