Nine Lives (Lily Dale Mystery #1)(75)

Was he walking down the hall at four thirty in the morning?

Was he speeding down Bachellor Hill Road two hours later?

But what could he possibly have against Steve Pierson?

What would Grant stand to gain from harming him?

The questions pelt like buckshot in her gut. Reeling, she unlocks the door to the Rose Room.

Stepping inside, she braces herself to find that something is off here, too.

But as she casts a wary eye around the room, her topsy-turvy world gradually rights itself again.

There’s Max, snug and safe, asleep in the big bed. There’s Chance, placidly licking one of her kittens—not Spidey—as the others suckle, wriggle, cry, and nap at her side.

The room is sun drenched and serene. A gentle breeze billows the lace curtains. Summer sounds seep through the screen: kids’ voices calling out to each other, the hum of a Jet Ski on the lake, cars passing on the road with the windows rolled down and music playing.

If only this—the sheer ordinariness of a warm July morning—could be Bella’s real life.

If only this place were some other place, some mundane small town where people don’t die under mysterious circumstances—and once they’re dead, they stay dead. A place where the living talk only among themselves.

Then Max and I would be able to make our fresh start here.

The sudden longing doesn’t make any more sense than anything else that’s happened today. A minute or two ago, she wanted nothing more than to flee Lily Dale.

Now more than anything in the entire world, she wants to stay here?

It’s only because she’s not ready for more good-byes. Not even to people she’s just met and a place she’s just discovered.

She’s tired of making difficult decisions and even more tired of having them made for her.

She pushes away the troubling thoughts and rubs the ache between her shoulder blades.

Surely once she’s caught up on sleep and capable of rational thinking, she’ll find herself looking forward to moving on again. And if not . . .

One thing at a time. First, feed the kitten. Then wake the kid. Then . . .

Catch the killer?

Sure. Something like that.

She wearily plucks Spidey from the litter and looks down at his precious little face.

Why, she wonders, did she, of all people, wind up with this little guy who needs so much more than she can possibly give? Why wasn’t he born to some other stray cat? Why here? Why now?

Everything happens for a reason.

In Bella’s lifetime—in the whole history of the world, for that matter—Odelia isn’t the first person who ever said those words. But they keep coming back to her. She keeps looking for meaning in the smallest things.

“Why did Chance find her way to me? And why did you find your way to her?” she asks the little cat as she settles into the chair with him on her lap. “Is it because it’s so much harder for me to walk away from someone who needs me so much?”

He only mews in response to her questions, as starved for nourishment as she is for some answers.

She swaddles him the way Doctor Bailey showed her, making him feel safe, and the kitten ingests the formula drop by drop, courageously determined to eat, to survive.

“Good job,” she whispers, running a fingertip along his fragile little spine, stroking the downy black fur between his folded ears.

“Mom?”

Max has awakened at last.

“Good morning.” She forces a jaunty note into her voice, but Max isn’t fooled for a second.

“Why are you sad?” he asks.

“Sad? What makes you think I’m sad?”

“I just know.”

Here we go again.

“Do you want me to cheer you up?”

“I’m fine, Max. Really. How’d you sleep?”

“I had a bad dream.”

Her hand goes still on the kitten’s toothpick of a spine. “What was it about?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s okay.”

I don’t think I want to hear about it. Not right now.

“How’s Chance the Cat? And the kittens? How’s Spidey?”

“Everyone is doing great. Growing big and strong.”

“Really?” Max gets out of bed and pads over.

His hair, in desperate need of a barber, is sticking straight up, his eyes are rimmed in dark circles, and his pajama top is on inside out. It’s all testimony to the long, late night—and perhaps, Bella thinks with a pang, to bad mothering on her part.

“You’re a good boy, Spidey,” Max croons, gently stroking the kitten’s head. “I’m so glad you’re our kitty. Don’t worry, Mom’s going to take good care of you.”

Bella swallows a hard lump of regret. She can’t bring herself to tell Max that she can barely take good care of him, let alone this forlorn little creature.

“Hey,” he says. “You cleaned up the mess.”

“What do you mean?”

“The papers.” He gestures at the stack on the dresser. “The ones that were on the floor.”

“Where did you find them, Max?”

“On the floor.”

“No, I mean before you dropped them on the floor. Where were they?”