Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Shame.
After putting them back where they belong, I’m out.
The fat orange cat follows me all the way to the living room then jumps on the counter near a cup. I stop and turn around then rotate the black cup to read what’s written on it.
I work hard so my cat can have a better life.
A deep chuckle leaves my lips. This is a serious cat lady, isn’t she?
The orange tabby jumps away, still glaring at me as if not approving of how I’m laughing about his owner —or his maid, depending on his perspective.
After one last sweep over her small apartment, I make a note of where I can install listening devices. Then I snap a picture of the calendar she’s pinned to her refrigerator. It’s filled with dates about her nights out with the girls, which happens every weekend if she doesn’t work the night shift.
If she needs to write it in her calendar, she must not care about those nights much.
My little Petal’s life might seem boring from the outside looking in, but there’s something that lurks under the surface.
I can smell it as easily as I smell blood and sense it as easily as I detect fear in my opponents’ eyes before I carve them the fuck up.
My instinct tells me to dig deeper, and while it’s fucking irritating not to know where this is taking me, I don’t ignore my instinct.
The contact I met, the previous gardener of the Costas’, barely remembers the boy. He only knows that Paolo Costa brought his woman and child and then they were gone the same week.
The boy could’ve had the name of Salvatore or Saviano.
The gardener, Giovani, is a man in his late eighties and doesn’t remember well.
The information might as well have been fucking useless to me. I know for a fact that Salvatore or Saviano or whatever the fuck his name is, has a mother. She could be dead or alive or hidden by Paolo. However, if he knew where the mother is, he should’ve found his son, too.
Now, I’m back to point zero. The gardener agreed to search for those who worked with him before, the ones who don’t have much of a record with the Costa because they haven’t stayed there long enough to warrant a file.
Most of them are dead, but some are still alive.
With nothing better to do, I go back to my current favorite hobby. Fine, not a hobby, an obsession.
I take a drag of my cigarette as I follow my little Petal. It’s about ten and she opted to walk halfway to the hospital after her car bailed on her.
She really needs to have that car checked, or better yet, throw it the fuck away.
Her steps are fast and fluid, almost as if she’s in a job. Her coat covers her frame, hiding the curves I’ve seen but wasn’t able to feast on.
I keep a good distance, walking on the other side of the street. She wouldn’t have noticed me even if I was walking right behind her. My little Petal is one of those who shut away the outside world when in the middle of chaos, and only focuses on getting where she needs to go.
The police would notice me, though. There’s a slim chance they’re still watching her for what happened with the doctor, and I’m not ready to take that chance.
As she takes the turn to the hospital, I stop. She stops, too, and for a second, I think she sensed me all along and will now turn around and confront me.
I don’t move, waiting for the moment she spins around. If she does, I’ll erase my plans and do this her way.
I’ll show her my true nature, bend her over her balcony and fuck this obsession out of her.
She doesn’t turn around, though.
My little Petal crouches at the corner. I lean sideways to see what she’s doing.
A small black cat sits in the corner and she stares at him with starry-wide eyes, as if she’s seen a treasure. Her smile is bright and soft, reaching her eyes, slightly closing them.
It’s anything but fake.
It’s utter happiness.
Fuck me.
How can someone look at cats like that?
My little Petal reaches into her bag and retrieves a tuna can then offers it to the kitten. Most women keep makeup in their bags, she keeps fucking cat food.
Go figure.
She plays with the kitten for a whole minute, and the little animal appears vulnerable, casting black magic on her to take him.
It’s working, too. Petal continues staring between her watch and the cat, biting her lower lip.
She wants the cat, but she must think she can’t have more.
With one last caress, she stands up and walks ahead, pulling out her phone. She’ll probably call some animal association, she has their cards on her counter, like a good old cat lady.