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“Ever paint again?” I patted Eddie’s head, thumping him just enough to make his head go up and down and up and down. He started purring. “Cade’s physical therapist says he should be able to have enough motor control for painting before Christmas. Maybe even Thanksgiving.”

“Sweet.”

Yes, it was. I’d been worried that the exertions of Friday night had set him back, but it turned out that the clearing of his name had been of more benefit than a month of exercises.

“And it’s all due to you,” he’d said. “You and your ferocious feline. Thanks to your efforts, the investments of thousands of people are safe and sound. What can I possibly do to repay you?”

I’d protested, saying I didn’t need anything, that I’d been glad to do it, that any halfway decent friend would have done the same thing, but he’d insisted. So had Barb and so had Ivy. Eventually we’d hammered out a compromise. He would paint a portrait of Eddie and I’d say thank you when it was delivered.

Kristen looked at me. Looked at Eddie. “You know,” she said, “I’ve been watching him the whole afternoon and it really does seem as if he understands what we’re saying. Especially you.”

“Don’t be silly.” I picked him up and turned him around. “What do you think, Eddie? Do you understand a single solitary word of this sentence? If you do, say something. Anything.”

Eddie looked me straight in the eye.

And didn’t say a word.