4: 4
4
I hooked the memory card into my phone and read it.
Inside was Sarah's black ledger for the counterfeit drugs she'd cooked up in the abandoned factory, and one transaction record: a payment to a hired killer.
A cold I couldn't shake sat against my skin and kept me awake the whole night.
The moment the sky went pale gray, I quietly packaged every piece of hard evidence and emailed it to the tip inbox of the city Criminal Investigation Division, along with one key lead.
Only after that did I go downstairs.
The atmosphere at the breakfast table was strange.
Aunt Sarah set a bowl of hot oatmeal in front of me.
“Char, you didn't sleep well last night, did you? Eat more. Your color is frightening, so pale.”
Her smile was as gentle as ever, as if last night had only been something I'd imagined.
Across the table, my mother watched with cold eyes and let out a sour little snort.
“Nobody's that nice for nothing. Char, keep your guard up around outsiders.”
“Sister, listen to yourself.”
“I'm Char's own aunt. How am I an outsider? Some people, now, you never see them around, but the second something goes wrong they run off fast enough.”
Genevieve set her chopsticks down with a sharp clack.
“Both of you, be quiet.”
She stood without so much as a glance at me.
“I can't stay in this house any longer. Charlene, I'm moving out today.”
“Where will you go?” My mother put on a concerned face at once.
“None of your business.”
Genevieve turned and walked toward her room.
I didn't try to stop her. I finished my oatmeal in silence, then followed her in.
She was packing a suitcase.
I came up behind her and held out the old apron.
“This is what you most want to take with you, isn't it.”
Her hands froze on the clothes she was folding.
She turned and stared at the apron.
Tucked into its lining was the secret she wouldn't tell me.
“What exactly are you trying to do?” she said, lowering her voice.
“Nothing.” I laid the apron on top of the suitcase. “I only want to know. When was the first time Inkblot spoke?”
Genevieve answered in a whisper.
“A few months before Henry's accident. Your aunt came by one day.”
“What did she come for?”
“To drop off some local specialties.” Genevieve gave a cold laugh. “But I saw it with my own eyes. She secretly fed the cat half a fish, and from that day on, that cat started learning to talk like a person.”
Something jolted through me.
Genevieve lifted her suitcase.
“Charlene, don't blame me for not warning you. There isn't a single good person in this house.”
She pushed past me and left with long strides.
I stood where I was and listened to the front door bang shut.
Then I turned and walked to the living room.
Inkblot lay on the couch, licking its paw.
I took out a piece of fresh fish and set it in front of it.
It came close, a purr rolling in its throat.
“Did Aunt Sarah teach you to say Genevieve was the killer?” I stared into its eyes.
Inkblot clamped down on the fish.
No answer.
“Talk.” I reached out and pinned its head down.
It struggled a moment, then swallowed the fish.
“She gave me canned tuna.”
“So you lied for her.” I said coldly.
“I didn't lie.”
“Genevieve did drug the liquor. She put it in the drink.”
“Then how did Henry die?” I pressed harder.
The cat stopped moving all at once.
It turned its head and fixed its gaze on the memorial portrait on the altar.
“Who was the last person Henry saw?” I threw the question at it again.
A very strange clicking sound came from its throat.
It didn't look at me. It looked at the portrait.
“It wasn't them.”
The cat's voice turned clear, carrying a trace of Henry's own way of speaking when he was alive.
“That night, the person who killed your husband never set foot in this house.”
I stood there, stunned.
Never set foot in the house?
That night, the bathroom window had been bolted from the inside, and there was no sign the front door had been forced.
If the killer hadn't come inside, then how did the half bottle of sleeping pills get into the drink?
And why would Henry end up dead in the bathtub?
“When he came home from outside, he had already drunk it.” the cat went on.
“Who is he?” I grabbed the cat's front paw hard.
It yowled in pain and wrenched free.
It jumped off the couch and ran to the door.
Then it turned its head and stared dead at the front door.
“He's right there.”
The cat raised a paw and pointed straight ahead.
“It's him.”
