It had an asymmetrical front, with a rounded porch extending along the left side. There was no Queen Anne tower, but the front window and the one above it were large, three-sided bays, forming a half tower. The details were Free Classic style, meaning they lacked the ornate gingerbread, instead favoring columns and simpler molding.

I continued forward. The street was lined with oaks and elms and maples, not one of which was under a hundred years old. An evening breeze made the leaves dance, and brought the faint perfume of magnolia blossoms.

I reached the house. The yard was emerald green and perfectly trimmed, as were the rose bushes and hydrangeas. The gardens were otherwise empty, though. Weeded, as if someone had meant to plant but lost track of time and missed the season.

A wrought-iron fence surrounded the house. On every post was a chimera head, like the ones in the park. I touched a minotaur.

This fence wasn’t something you could hire the local builder to install, even a hundred years ago. Gorgeous, expensive custom work. I walked down to the next chimera. That’s when I glanced up at the house and noticed the frieze under the cornices. Gargoyles.

“Mrrowwww.”

The plaintive cry made me jump. It was TC, beyond a doubt. The call came from the side of the house, but I could see nothing there. Then it sounded again.

I bent outside the fence and called him. I whistled. I chirped. I clucked. I made every “here, kitty kitty” noise I could think of, and as I did, his cries grew louder and more urgent.

He’s hurt. He’s trapped.

He couldn’t be. I’d just seen him.

I pushed through the latched gate and up onto the porch. I rang the bell. I used the knocker. Brass, with a cuckoo’s head—a good marriage omen. I called a hello. TC yowled louder.

No one was home. That’s why the shutters were closed. The owners were gone for a while, the house battened down tight.

I cast one last look at the leaded-glass sidelights to be sure a light wouldn’t suddenly flick on, then I went back down the porch steps and around the side of the house. I immediately saw where the noise had come from: an open basement window. I hurried over. The window was a side-slider, open maybe six inches. Below, all was dark, but I could hear TC meowing.

My flashlight app is far from perfect, but when I reached my phone through the window, it dimly lit a typical old-house basement, with a dirt floor and bare walls. And a cat. My cat. Yowling for me to rescue him.

“What?” I said. “Ten minutes ago you run away from me, then you jump through a window to hide, find yourself trapped, and decide maybe I’m not so bad after all? I should leave you down there.”

He yowled louder.

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered.

I looked around. One shutter near the front of the house had come unfastened and tapped in the breeze. I walked over, opened it, and stood on tiptoes to peer into the house.

The room was as empty as the basement.

The owners hadn’t just left for a while. No one lived here. I stepped back for a better look. The house was in excellent shape for its age. Well tended, too. How could a place like this sit empty without even a For Sale sign on the lawn?

Not my concern, really. What mattered was that it was empty and my damned cat was trapped in the basement.

I went around to the back door. While I had no issue with breaking into an empty house for good cause, I sure as hell wasn’t doing it from the front.

The backyard was at least a half acre—classic Victorian garden, with grass replaced by cobblestone walks and flowerbeds. There was an empty fishpond, too, with a fountain. Moss and ivy covered fantastical statuary—fairies and green men, mermaids and fauns. Cleaned up and filled in, it would be a showpiece. Right now, it had a desolate, almost haunting air, and I paused there, feeling the tug of it, inviting me to wander in the twilight. Lovely thought, if my damned cat wasn’t still yowling.

I went through a walled patio and tried the back door. Unlocked. Not surprising. I was the only person in town with a security system, or so Grace had muttered when I explained to her how it worked.

I eased open the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The house was so silent even my breathing seemed to echo through the empty rooms. TC had stopped yowling, as if knowing rescue was imminent. I stepped slowly into the kitchen as my eyes adjusted to the near dark.

No appliances. Bare counters covered in a layer of dust. Leaded-glass doors on the cupboards showed they were equally bare.

The basement door was right there, in the kitchen. I took out my gun before opening it. Yes, I carried a gun jogging. Gabriel had bought me a holster and insisted on it after I found Ciara in my car. I was happy for it now. I didn’t care if the house was obviously empty—I wasn’t venturing unarmed into the pitch-black basement of an abandoned house chasing my missing cat. That screams slasher flick.

I called TC from the top of the stairs. He responded with a cry, but it was muffled, as if there was a door between us. I took it slow going down the stairs, ignoring his increasingly frantic yowls.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I called. “Remind me again why I wanted you back? Damn cat.”

The basement opened into a large room with several closed doors. It was as still as the main floor. I cast my mock flashlight around and saw more of what I’d spotted through the window. Dirt floor. Bare walls.

TC scratched at one of the closed doors. When I opened it, he darted out. I bent to pet him. As soon as I touched his side, I stopped. I could feel his ribs. His fur was matted and bedraggled.

Had he been trapped—?

No, I’d seen him outside. He must have just had a hard time on the streets.

A hard time on the streets of Cainsville? This wasn’t Englewood. He hadn’t been in this condition when he first adopted me. Thin, yes. Fleas, yes. But basically fine.

I pushed the door open farther and hit the light switch. Nothing happened. The power was off. I could see a puddle under the window, as if rain had come in. It hadn’t rained since Saturday night. There were mice, too, or what remained of them. Food and water.

“You were trapped down here,” I said. “That wasn’t you I saw.”

Yet it had been, in a way. An omen that had led me to him. When I bent, he rubbed against me and lifted onto his hind legs. I gingerly picked him up, expecting him to leap down—we didn’t have a cuddly-kitty relationship. He settled into my arms and purred.

“That happy to see me, huh?” I said. “Something tells me you won’t take off for a jaunt anytime soon.” I settled him in my arms. “Let’s get you home. I think I’ve got a can of tuna in the cupboard.”