A couple tankini-clad girls watched me manhandle Theodore into my car. They looked about eighteen and were the walking poster children for the benefits of tanning beds. The sportier of the two wore a silky pageboy haircut; the other had long, blond locks.
“Man, that’s a big cat,” Pageboy called out.
I pushed flyaway hair out of my face and readjusted my glasses. “He’s a Maine Coon cat. They’re generally a big breed, but he might be a little too big.”
I slammed the door before Theodore could escape, not that I thought he’d move as long as he was in the vicinity of a well-stocked food source.
Blond Locks smoothed her swimsuit over her flat stomach. “You shouldn’t let your cat get that big, you know.”
I mentally snorted, no one lets Theodore do anything.
“The cat’s not hers,” Pageboy said.
Before they could accuse me of cat-napping, I said, “He’s my brother’s cat.”
“You’re Mark’s sister?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said.
She snapped her gum. “We live next door to him. I’m Brit. This is Karen.”
“I’m India. Have you seen Mark today?”
Brit and Karen consulted each other with a look.
Apparently spokesperson for the duo, Brit said, “Saw him this morning, when we were heading to the pool at about ten.”
Karen nodded in agreement.
“He was acting really weird,” Brit added.
I stepped closer to the aluminum fence. “Weird?”
“Yeah, like he was crying really hard, and when we asked him if he was okay, he didn’t even look at us.”
My shoulder began to throb as it always does when I’m upset. “So he didn’t say where he was going or anything?”
“Naw,” Brit said and wrapped a bright towel around her waist. “But after he left, this older guy pulled up and banged on his door. Me and Karen were talking to Kev at the time, he’s, like—well, we’re kinda dating or will be. The only reason I noticed is because this old guy showed up with a couple of cops. Kev, he’s going to the police academy after he graduates; he said it was, like, a takedown.”
Mains and reinforcements.
Karen finally spoke up. “Is Mark in trouble?” Her eyes sparkled hopefully.
“No,” I said. “Best of luck with Kev, Brit.”
After rolling down the windows in my car for Theodore, I hurried back into Mark’s apartment.
Certainly, my brother wouldn’t be so distraught that he’d—of course not. I yanked his portal phone from the kitchen wall where it hung next to a three-year-old calendar. I dialed my parents’ number. No one answered, and the machine picked up. I didn’t leave a message. My parents were having Sunday lunch at some parishioner’s home or trapped into some type of meeting with the church elders. I contemplated calling the church office but thought better of it.
I tapped the portable phone into the palm of my right hand. Where could he have gone? Then, it hit me. No, he couldn’t be that stupid, I thought.
But then again, I knew he could.
Chapter Fourteen
For the second time that weekend, I directed my car down my childhood street. Several homeowners along its length were mowing their lawns or gardening through the oppressive afternoon heat. The Blocken house remained rooted and stone silent. Several cars speckled its long driveway. The blinds and curtains at every window were sealed tight. I discreetly passed the house, searching for my brother’s car.
Childishly, I directed my eyes forward as I rolled beyond the Blocken home, believing that if I couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see me. I drove the street’s length, and I didn’t see Mark’s car or any other sign of him. I exhaled with relief and guilt. How could I think that he would have come here? Oh, me of little faith. Maybe Mark was smarter than I gave him credit for, I thought. I looped around the block for a second pass—just to be sure—and headed home.
I parked the car in my driveway and sprinted into the apartment, while awkwardly managing Theodore and his now-empty food dish, before Ina could burst out of her unit and harangue me with questions. Slamming the door, I bolted it behind me. I dropped the cat. He landed with a resounding thud.
Templeton hissed and arched his back at the intruder. The two felines knew each other socially, but weren’t best pals. Theodore stomped across the room to examine Templeton, who jumped off of the couch and dashed out of the room faster than the speed of sound, no doubt to stew under my bed while contemplating the most inconvenient place to deposit a hairball in revenge. Theodore leapt onto the couch and settled into Templeton’s favorite spot. I showed Theodore where the litter box was in the tiny utility room.
“Use it, or you’ll make a very nice fur collar,” I told him.
For the first time in days, I entered my studio. My shoulders sagged. I hadn’t painted in weeks. It was so easy to simply accept mediocre failure in place of lifelong ambition. I mentally excused myself, considering the circumstances of late, but my guilty conscience would not forgive me.
The studio was a small second bedroom that I had converted into an art den when I had rented the apartment. The flooring was slab-cement stained with acrylics, paint thinner, and every other possible substance a painter can spill, drop, or knock over while at work. Ina, upon hearing that I was a painter, allowed me to remove the carpet under a three-finger Girl Scout swear that I would replace it if and when I moved out. The room contained one window flanked on either side by metal shelves holding all the essential trappings of a painter’s arsenaclass="underline" brushes, blank canvases, pigments, and remnants of rejected works. My easel faced away from the door and dominated the middle of the room. Across from the easel sat a decrepit sofa I’d salvaged from a Martin dorm and splattered with every shade of oil paint in the rainbow.
On the colored cushions, someone lay prostrate.
Startled, I cried out. The other person released an equally girlish squeak.
Mark.
“What are you doing here?” I gasped.
He clutched a throw pillow to his chest. “I was looking for you. You weren’t here, so I let myself in.”
“What are you doing in this room?” I demanded, to cover up my relief at finding him.
“I was looking for you, and then, I saw . . .” He gestured to my easel, which held a nearly complete twelve by fourteen portrait of a young girl. The girl was about ten, had cropped brown hair, startling blue eyes, and small features. She wore a bright T-shirt and ratty jean shorts. She perched on the edge of the front steps that led into her home. Her knees touched, and she hinged forward at the waist. The gaze held intensity and concealed amusement.
Olivia. A forgotten wedding gift.
“I haven’t slept in two days, but I was able to sleep here.” He stared at the painting and avoided my eyes. He laughed mirthlessly, bitterly. “She’s dead. Her mother called me this morning. She accused me of killing her. Is that what you think?”
I froze in the studio doorway. “Of course, I don’t think that.” Like Mark, I avoided using Olivia’s name. “Mrs. Blocken’s searching for a scapegoat. No one could seriously think you’d hurt anyone.” My conversation with Mains that morning came to mind, but I pushed it away. He might suspect Mark, but he didn’t know my brother.
Mark nodded, staring at his feet. Then he started to cry, powerful sobs that shook his entire body. I remained frozen, again wishing my more compassionate and maternal sister was with me. Something soft grazed my leg. Theodore. He walked across the room and crawled into Mark’s lap. Mark clung to the cat and wept into his thick fur. The cat purred in reply. Mark didn’t question the cat’s presence.
After several tense minutes in which Mark wept, Theodore comforted, and I idled, Mark wiped his face on the pillow that would never be quite the same. With his mission accomplished, Theodore deserted his master.
“Is there anything I can get you?” I asked.
He ignored the question. “I can’t even believe it, you know. Can you?”