be the primary mode of
delivering important information for young people these days. Either way, I had a
feeling Becca was going to need a lot more shoulder-crying time, and I already had
a full day as it was. I certainly didn’t want her to go through this alone, but the
bottom line was I barely knew her, and it wasn’t my job to shepherd her through the
hazardous terrain of love and heartbreak. I decided that if she hadn’t talked to her
parents by now, I’d try my best to convince her it was the right thing to do.
The house was completely quiet. This time when I opened the door, the alarm panel
didn’t beep, and Charlotte wasn’t waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. I called
out to announce my presence, expecting Charlotte to come slinking around the corner
to give me the stink-eye, but no one answered. I went into the living room, where
there was a half-empty liquor bottle and a couple of glasses on the coffee table,
but no Charlotte. For the first time, I had a funny feeling that something wasn’t
quite right.
Every house has a particular scent to it, a very subtle mixture of the people and
animals that live in it, as unique as a fingerprint. The Harwick house had a clean,
earthy scent: a combination of cooking aromas from the kitchen, chlorine from the
pool, the salty air off the ocean, and a note of lavender, perhaps Mrs. Harwick’s
perfume. But now, something was different. I told myself that the Harwicks had been
gone for almost two days, and it was only natural that the scent of the house would
change in their absence.
But I couldn’t find Charlotte anywhere. She wasn’t in the kitchen or the dining area.
I even looked under the couch in the living room and behind the dryer in the laundry
room off the kitchen, both popular feline hiding spots, but she was nowhere to be
seen. I went up the marble staircase and tiptoed down the main hall toward the master
suite. The doors to Becca’s and August’s bedrooms were both closed, and I didn’t think
it would be right to go snooping around in there. At least not yet, especially since
I wasn’t completely sure they weren’t home and I didn’t want to barge in on them if
they were. Hell hath no fury like a teenager awakened at dawn.
The pillows on the big bed in the master bedroom had the same indentations where Charlotte
had slept the night before, and the bedspread was a little mussed. Maybe she had slipped
under the bed when she heard me open the front door. I felt around the pillows for
signs of warmth, but there was nothing. I looked under the bed anyway, hoping I’d
see her emerald eyes sparkling mischievously at me, but there were only a couple of
dust bunnies and the foil wrapper from a piece of chewing gum.
I was beginning to get a little concerned as I made my way down the short hall toward
the master bathroom. As grumpy as Charlotte was, it didn’t make sense that she would
hide—especially since cats are such inquisitive animals. She would have at least been
curious enough to find out who was in the house before she gave them the cold shoulder,
and it certainly wasn’t possible that anyone else had fed her this early in the morning.
I tried to form an image in my mind of where I might be if I was a snarky queen in
a sprawling mansion, and that turned out to be quite easy: that peach velvet bench
in the bathroom opposite the aquarium, next to the gold-plated telephone.
I flicked on the light switch by the doorway, and the overhead chandelier lit up to
reveal the bathroom in all its over-the-top glory, but no Charlotte. There was a damp
towel draped over the counter next to the sink, but otherwise everything looked normal.
I leaned into the little alcove and peered behind the velvet bench just in case Charlotte
was hiding there and thought, This is getting serious. I was out of ideas. I sat down on the bench and put my hand on the gold-plated phone,
delivering important information for young people these days. Either way, I had a
feeling Becca was going to need a lot more shoulder-crying time, and I already had
a full day as it was. I certainly didn’t want her to go through this alone, but the
bottom line was I barely knew her, and it wasn’t my job to shepherd her through the
hazardous terrain of love and heartbreak. I decided that if she hadn’t talked to her
parents by now, I’d try my best to convince her it was the right thing to do.
The house was completely quiet. This time when I opened the door, the alarm panel
didn’t beep, and Charlotte wasn’t waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. I called
out to announce my presence, expecting Charlotte to come slinking around the corner
to give me the stink-eye, but no one answered. I went into the living room, where
there was a half-empty liquor bottle and a couple of glasses on the coffee table,
but no Charlotte. For the first time, I had a funny feeling that something wasn’t
quite right.
Every house has a particular scent to it, a very subtle mixture of the people and
animals that live in it, as unique as a fingerprint. The Harwick house had a clean,
earthy scent: a combination of cooking aromas from the kitchen, chlorine from the
pool, the salty air off the ocean, and a note of lavender, perhaps Mrs. Harwick’s
perfume. But now, something was different. I told myself that the Harwicks had been
gone for almost two days, and it was only natural that the scent of the house would
change in their absence.
But I couldn’t find Charlotte anywhere. She wasn’t in the kitchen or the dining area.
I even looked under the couch in the living room and behind the dryer in the laundry
room off the kitchen, both popular feline hiding spots, but she was nowhere to be
seen. I went up the marble staircase and tiptoed down the main hall toward the master
suite. The doors to Becca’s and August’s bedrooms were both closed, and I didn’t think
it would be right to go snooping around in there. At least not yet, especially since
I wasn’t completely sure they weren’t home and I didn’t want to barge in on them if
they were. Hell hath no fury like a teenager awakened at dawn.
The pillows on the big bed in the master bedroom had the same indentations where Charlotte
had slept the night before, and the bedspread was a little mussed. Maybe she had slipped
under the bed when she heard me open the front door. I felt around the pillows for
signs of warmth, but there was nothing. I looked under the bed anyway, hoping I’d
see her emerald eyes sparkling mischievously at me, but there were only a couple of
dust bunnies and the foil wrapper from a piece of chewing gum.
I was beginning to get a little concerned as I made my way down the short hall toward
the master bathroom. As grumpy as Charlotte was, it didn’t make sense that she would
hide—especially since cats are such inquisitive animals. She would have at least been
curious enough to find out who was in the house before she gave them the cold shoulder,
and it certainly wasn’t possible that anyone else had fed her this early in the morning.
I tried to form an image in my mind of where I might be if I was a snarky queen in
a sprawling mansion, and that turned out to be quite easy: that peach velvet bench
in the bathroom opposite the aquarium, next to the gold-plated telephone.
I flicked on the light switch by the doorway, and the overhead chandelier lit up to
reveal the bathroom in all its over-the-top glory, but no Charlotte. There was a damp
towel draped over the counter next to the sink, but otherwise everything looked normal.
I leaned into the little alcove and peered behind the velvet bench just in case Charlotte
was hiding there and thought, This is getting serious. I was out of ideas. I sat down on the bench and put my hand on the gold-plated phone,
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