by Jae
A wrinkle of confusion formed between Jorie's brows. "But what would a low-life criminal from Chicago — and one that wears expensive, handmade shoes — do in Osgrove? It's not exactly rich pickings around here."
"Let's not jump to conclusions, ma'am," the officer said. "We'll know more once we investigate this more thoroughly." They wouldn't. No one would ever search for the perpetrator or do anything to solve the case. Maybe the report would just be misfiled.
Finally, after Griffin had given her statement and they both signed the report, Jorie asked, "What can we do to protect ourselves from identity theft?"
"First of all, cancel all your cards, call the credit reporting agencies, and file a fraud alert. That will stop him from opening accounts and taking out loans under your name," the Kasari officer said. "And you should be more careful in your home too since we assume he now knows your address."
Griffin flashed him an angry gaze behind Jorie's back. Are you crazy? That was not the wording that she knew Jennings had instructed him to use. We don't need her to be even more careful.
The officer didn't react to her anger. If he recognized her as the daughter of his nataks, he hid it well. Like all Wrasa in high-adrenaline jobs, he had excellent control over his emotions to keep himself from shifting at inopportune moments. "You might want to look into buying an alarm system," the officer added.
Good. Now they were back on track. According to her host at the bed-and-breakfast, the owner of the only security company in town was a Wrasa, who could give them the access codes to Jorie's house.
"And change your habits, just in case," the officer said.
"Change my habits?" Jorie repeated with a frown.
The officer nodded. "Don't let him know you're living alone, for example. Surround yourself with people — and if you can, maybe even people who look like they know how to defend themselves." His gaze flickered to Griffin as if by pure chance. "Make him think trying to break in is not worth the risk."
Ah, nice improvisation. Surround yourself with people, huh? People who look like they can defend themselves... and you. Griffin looked down her solid, muscular body and held back a grin.
It was a pale, visibly shaken Jorie who finally left the doctor's office. She looked as if she was just now beginning to understand the consequences that having her wallet stolen could have. Walking next to her, Griffin could smell her frustration and the hint of fear that Jorie managed to hide so well. Come on. Don't get sentimental. You're here to do your job, not to feel sorry for some human.
Jorie stopped in front of her car. Her fingers played with the keys in her pocket. She pulled them out and opened the passenger side door. "Come on; get in. I'll take you back. You took a hit on the head, so it might be better if you don't drive for a while. With the police patrolling the area, your rental car should be fine parked in that side street until tomorrow." She waited until Griffin folded her large frame into the passenger seat, then closed the door and went around the car to settle into the driver's seat. "Where are you staying?" she asked when she started the car.
"A bed-and-breakfast at the other end of town," Griffin said. She didn't give directions, because she didn't want to go back to the bed-and-breakfast. "The doctor said it might be a good idea for you not to be alone tonight. Do you have anyone waiting for you at home?"
"I'm fine on my own," Jorie said. Her glance darted to Griffin, then back to focus on the street. "What about you? Is anyone waiting for you at the bed-and-breakfast? Someone who can take care of you?"
Probably the Maki with the notebook. Griffin suppressed a snort. It seems human fairytales are about as realistic as Wrasa legends. I don't think the damsel in distress is supposed to just send her knight back home to his castle after he rescues her from the big, bad dragon. Being abandoned in her hotel room was not part of her plan. "No," she said and closed her eyes, pretending to be more affected by the blow to the head than she really was.
When Griffin felt Jorie's gaze rest on her, she pressed her fingertips against her temple, faking a headache.
With a sigh that would have been inaudible for the human ear, Jorie steered the car in the direction where Griffin knew her house to be.
Ha! A triumphant smile crept onto her face, and Griffin quickly made it look like a pained grimace. Score one for the cat.
* * *
"I hope you like cats," Jorie said as she unlocked her front door. "I have three feline roommates."
Griffin grinned. "Oh, don't worry. I love cats." The problem was that cats didn't always love her. Like most animals, cats seemed to sense that Wrasa weren't really human. Cats usually reacted with confusion, fear, or sometimes aggression to Griffin. After a while, Griffin often managed to get them to accept her as a fellow cat, but the first welcome was less than warm.
Sucking in the air through her mouth, Griffin tasted the scents of Jorie's house as they entered. No Wrasa scent anywhere. In fact, the only humanoid scent she detected was Jorie's. It filled every room, making Griffin feel as if she were wandering through the forest in spring, with waterfalls of light filtering in through the leaves. She could almost feel the spring sun warm her skin, almost hear the buzz of insects and the flapping of birds' wings.
"Let's go into the living room." Jorie's voice pulled her out of her momentary trance.
Griffin's gaze slid left and right. None of the cats seemed to be inside, so she could focus on Jorie's home and what it told her about its owner. Judging from the size of the living room, it was the biggest room in the small house — and probably the most used. The scent of coffee and paper hung in the air. Griffin's nose detected it long before her eyes made out the empty mug on the coffee table and the tall bookshelves lining every wall of the room.
Jorie threw her keys onto a side table, almost toppling over a stack of newspapers. She lifted a laundry basket from the easy chair. The clothes in it were still unfolded, but Griffin's nose told her they were already washed and clean.
Wandering into the room, Griffin continued to look around. A small desk with an ergonomic chair was snuggled in one corner of the living room. Jorie's laptop sat on the coffee table, though, and the comforter that lay unfolded on the couch told her that this was Jorie's writing place. Straight ahead on one of the shelves, Jorie's own books were displayed. In someone else's living room, they would have looked like trophies, but from the way Jorie had rejected Griffin's praise of her novel, she knew Jorie was not a vain writer. The novels on the shelf probably served as a motivation whenever Jorie looked up from her laptop.
Both the desk and the coffee table were in sharp contrast to the rest of the clean, but not overly neat house. In those two areas where Jorie wrote, everything was in its place: index cards were separated by color and size; the pencils were sharpened, and pages of notes were lined up next to the laptop, where Jorie needed them.
She's organized when it comes to her writing, Griffin thought, but she's not anal about keeping order in the rest of her life. And she likes to travel lightly.
Except for the laptop, the writing utensils, and the books on the bookshelves, there were few personal knickknacks lying around. One lone framed picture balanced on a shelf, and Griffin planned on taking a closer look at the first opportunity, just to make sure that no one close to Jorie was Wrasa.
"Take a seat," Jorie said. With her right hand, she took hold of Griffin's arm and led her over to the easy chair.
Just as Griffin was about to pretend that the slender Jorie was helping to ease her 400-pound frame into the easy chair, the scent of fur, damp paws, and cat food hit Griffin's nose.
Her head jerked up, and her eyes detected movement.
A cat ambled into the living room.
The cat and Griffin both stopped and stared at each other.
Griffin took in the bushy tail that was flicking from side to side. The cat's long hair probably appeared reddish brown to the human eye. A Somali, she thought.
After a second of silent stare-down, the cat, still frozen to the
spot, hissed at Griffin.
Griffin's upper lip curled. She barely held back an answering hiss, outmatching the cat's in volume and length.
"Agatha!" Jorie chided. "Sorry," she said to Griffin. "She's normally friendlier. Will is usually the one who gets all bristly around strangers."
Great. So I have to look forward to more attitude from her miniature tigers. Part of her longed to put the feline into its place, but the rest of her knew it was childish. There's no doubt who is top cat anyway, so focus on Jorie, not on the cats.
"Maybe it's the scent of blood and disinfectant clinging to both of us," she said. It was more than that, of course. The cat was reacting to a predator in her territory. Still staring at the cat, not wanting her to think that her retreat was a surrender, Griffin finally sat down. "Agatha and William... not exactly typical names for cats. Is that coincidence, or did you really name your cats after famous authors?" she asked to distract Jorie from the weird behavior of her cat.
"What did you expect? Tiger, Smokey, and Fluffy?" Jorie kicked off her shoes and flashed a rare grin in Griffin's direction.
"Would it surprise you to hear that one of the resident bobcats of Ouachita National Forest is named Bob?" As a matter of fact, Griffin knew a few bobcat-shifters with the same name.
"Ouch." Jorie had to laugh too. "It seems you could use the help of a writer on that project to come up with a few more original names."
Purring filled Griffin's ears as Jorie scratched the cat's neck. "You said you have three cats. What's the third one's name... Edgar Allan?" Griffin asked.
"No." Jorie was still smiling. "Her name is Emily. I call her Emmy."
Ah, I think I got the hang of it now. Patient observation always paid off when you were a cat. She likes to talk about writing and about her cats. Then let's keep talking about her cats. "And who is the boss in this household?" she asked. "Agatha?"
Not looking up from her attempts to get the cat to calm down, Jorie asked, "Would you believe I am the boss?"
"Not in a house full of cats," Griffin answered without hesitation. Jorie was impressive, yes, but not even she could control a cat.
Jorie chuckled but said nothing, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with Griffin's statement. Finally, she straightened. "Can I get you something to eat or to drink while I change and make a few calls? I need to cancel my credit card and call my bank to report my ATM card stolen — you should do the same."
She's careful, not taking any chances, Griffin thought. Why would a woman like this risk her personal safety to write a book about shape-shifters? If she knows we exist, she must be aware of how dangerous that could be. The pieces of the puzzle didn't fit together, but Griffin was determined to figure it out. I bet whoever gave her the inside information failed to mention that she would have a unit of trained soldiers after her if she tried to have that book published.
"You should go easy on your arm for a while. I can make us something to eat," she said. No Wrasa ever said no to the offer of food. She had eaten before meeting with Jorie, but she didn't know for how much longer she would be here. If she got hungry and impatient to get food, it would be hard to resist the urge to shift and get rid of her headache and the feelings of guilt.
"It's just a little cut, and I'm right-handed anyway." Either Jorie wasn't used to being fussed over, or she didn't want Griffin to snoop around in her kitchen. She motioned for Griffin to remain seated and disappeared into the kitchen. The long-haired cat, still eyeing Griffin distrustfully, trailed after her.
Griffin heard the refrigerator being opened. The scent of turkey made her mouth water. Let's hope it's for me, not for the cat. Then a note of mustard drifted along the roof of her mouth. Ah. She's making sandwiches. I think she's trying to keep herself busy. She doesn't want to stop and think how close she might have come to being killed. Or maybe she's just uncomfortable having me in her house.
"Turkey sandwich okay?" Jorie called from the kitchen. "You're not a vegetarian or anything, are you?"
Griffin snorted. Her stomach growled enthusiastically. "No, turkey is fine."
"Do you want gherkins on it? Or tomatoes?"
"No, thanks," Griffin answered. If she was lucky, Jorie would put twice the amount of turkey on hers instead.
"Something to drink?"
"Just water, please." It was always the safest choice of beverages in a human household. Sugary drinks were wasted on cat-shifters because they couldn't taste its sweetness, and coffee and alcoholic beverages could be dangerous to her physiology.
Sounds from the kitchen indicated that Jorie was now feeding the cat. Griffin stood and wandered over to the framed photograph on the bookshelf. It showed a pigtailed little girl balancing on the armrest of an easy chair. She couldn't be older than five or six, but something about the way the dark eyes looked into the camera left no doubt in Griffin's mind that this was Jorie. The tan arm of a salt-and-pepper-haired man cradled her safely. His other hand held on to a book, and his lips were forming words. He was reading to the little girl, who was pressed against his side.
He's her father. The man looked nothing like Jorie and wasn't even Asian American, but there could be no doubt about his place in Jorie's life. Maybe Jorie took after her mother. His stance was protective and affectionate. It didn't resemble a Kasari interacting with his cubs, though. His body language was all wrong for a Wrasa. He's human.
Before she could look for photos of Jorie's mother or other family members, soft steps alerted her to Jorie's return.
Griffin sprinted across the room and sat back down.
Carrying a plate and with a bottle of water tucked under one arm, Jorie entered. Her hands were steadier now. She had used the few minutes in the kitchen to pull herself together.
Against her will, Griffin had to admire her self-control.
Agatha was still trailing behind Jorie, her nose up in the air, scenting the turkey on Griffin's sandwich. She stopped when Jorie set the plate with the sandwich in front of Griffin.
Griffin held back a smirk. Mine. All mine.
"Do you want something for the pain?" Jorie asked over her shoulder, already halfway to the bedroom. "Or some ice for your head?"
Ice? Gooseflesh pimpled Griffin's skin at the mere thought of pressing ice-cold, frozen blocks against her warm skin. "No, thanks. But you should take something."
"I will," Jorie answered and vanished into the bedroom.
Now Griffin was alone with the cat, who was still lusting after her sandwich. Griffin hesitated. Even more than the Kasari or Syak, who lived in social groups, the solitary Puwar hated sharing food. Come on. It's for a good cause. She wasn't above bribery when it came to securing the cat's affection and therefore Jorie's trust. Almost in slow motion, still fighting her possessive instincts, she pinched off a piece of turkey and held it out to the Somali cat.
Agatha hesitated, looking back and forth between the delicious treat and the big predator in the room.
"Oh, come on now. I'm sacrificing part of my food, so don't play the diva." With a flick of her finger, she threw the piece of turkey halfway between the easy chair and the spot where Agatha was sitting.
The bedroom door opened, and Jorie stepped out. One glance and she had made out Griffin's attempt to bribe the cat.
"Sorry," Griffin said. She knew most pet owners didn't like other people feeding their cat or dog. And rightly so. I've seen a lot of humans giving really stupid and unhealthy things to animals.
"Don't encourage her, or you'll end up eating a dry piece of bread while she gets all the turkey," Jorie said but otherwise didn't rebuke Griffin for giving food to her cat. Maybe she trusted Griffin as a zoologist to know what food would be safe for a cat. Jorie set a bottle of painkillers onto the coffee table. "If you're in pain, take one. You don't need to play the hero."
Griffin wasn't. She would gladly do something to get rid of her slight headache, but she knew human painkillers would do her more harm than good. "I'm fine, really," she said.
"All right."
Jorie grabbed a piece of paper from her desk and disappeared into the bedroom again.
When the door closed behind her, Griffin stood and examined the notes on the coffee table. She took her time, knowing calling in all her credit cards and bank accounts would take a while.
The first few pages were an outline of some sorts, giving detailed information about technical elements such as point of view, scene goals, and character arcs that Griffin didn't really understand. Next came an editing checklist, and at the bottom of the stack was a printout of a Web site about tigers. Nothing of interest. Let's hope there's more helpful information in the notebook we stole.
In the bedroom, Jorie was just saying good-bye to the woman from her credit card company. Her footfalls neared the door.
With two big leaps, Griffin bounded around the coffee table and landed in the easy chair. Only at the very last moment did she remember the fragility of human furniture and slowed her descent to avoid having the easy chair collapse under her weight.
Scared by the sudden fast movements, the cat ran to hide in the kitchen.
"You didn't touch your food," Jorie said when she entered the room.
"Sorry." Griffin squinted and feigned sleepiness. "I was busy calling my credit card company and my bank." She pointed at the cell phone that was hooked to her belt. "And then I think I fell asleep for a second."
Jorie's dark eyes probed into Griffin's. "Are you all right? You look flushed."
Yeah, that's what racing around the room, trying to avoid being caught spying will do to you. "I'm fine, just a little..." Griffin made a vague gesture toward her head, letting Jorie fill in the blanks. She picked up the sandwich and forced herself to eat slowly. Not only didn't she want to come across like a pig, she also was in no hurry to leave. Her plan involved staying the night, but so far, Jorie hadn't voiced an invitation.
Finally, the sandwich and the bottle of water were gone, but Jorie still hadn't started a conversation. For someone who makes her living with words, she sure doesn't talk a lot. Normally, she would enjoy the silence. Humans talked too much anyway. But if Jorie remained silent, Griffin would never learn anything about her and her story. "I'm sorry about your backpack," she said as sincerely as she could.
