CHAPTER ONE
Amelia
My job would be a lot easier without the people involved. I’ll take an angry raccoon over a human ‘just tryin’ to help’ any day.
“Please stand back,” I say to the mother and her six-year-old son, who are literally peering over my shoulder as I attempt to catch sight of whatever critter is hiding under their porch.
The crawl space is too narrow and long and dark. I can’t see anything.
I straighten and face the mother, Ava Simms, who’s standing so close I can smell stale coffee and cigarettes on her breath. “I can’t see the animal, but I’ll leave a trap and come back tomorrow.”
“I want to see it now,” the little boy whines. “I want to pet the kitten.”
“Can’t you just get the kitten now?” Mrs. Simms pleads. Her blond hair is probably pretty when it’s all done up, but it looks stringy and greasy today, like she hasn’t had time for a shower in a while. Her makeup is done though, and lovely.
“A trap is the safest and most humane way to catch the animal,” I say. “I can’t even be sure it’s actually a kitten, and—”
The little boy kicks me in the shin so hard I say a very bad word. A word that should never be said in front of a child.
“It’s a kitten,” he screams. “I saw it, and I know it’s a kitten.”
I look at Mrs. Simms. My expression ought to be telling her to get a hold of her child and tell him not to kick people, but she won’t meet my eye.
The boy looks like he’s about to aim another kick at me, so I walk over to my truck to grab the trap.
“Aiden, sweetie,” Mrs. Simms says. “Do you want to be a big boy and peek under the house to see what the kitten’s doing?”
“I know it’s a kitten,” he says.
“Of course it is,” Mrs. Simms says. “I don’t doubt you for a moment.”
“Shedoubts me,” the little boy spits the words with a venom that rivals the force of his kick.
“I’m going to have a word with her about that,” she says.
I’m just pulling out the trap when she steps over to me and says in a low voice, “If you don’t get the kitten now, my husband’s going to shoot it.”
I’m an animal control officer in Southwest Virginia, so hearing about someone wanting to shoot a domesticated animal is a regular occurrence. And based on Mrs. Simms’ concerned expression, she’s not just saying what she thinks I need to hear to get me to do what she wants.
I shove the trap back into the truck. I’m a softie where animals are concerned, and I’m not going to have a kitten’s blood on my hands.
“It’s just that my husband hates cats, and we have a family of bunnies that show up every spring, and he’s convinced any cat on our property will kill those bunnies and—”
I hold up a hand because I’ve heard it all before. “I understand. You don’t need to explain.”
Grabbing a cat carrier instead of the trap, I pray that it really is a kitten under her house. I don’t mind handling the occasional wild animal when I have to, but they are far more unpredictable than domestic pets. Better to let a wildlife expert handle them.
Aiden is head and shoulders in the crawl space. “Come here, kitty,” he yells.
I sigh. “Can you ask your son to come out of the crawl space? It’ll be harder to catch the animal if it’s terrified.”
“No,” Mrs. Simms says. “He’ll come out when he’s ready.”
There is a long list of things I’d like to say to that, but I’m a public servant and I’m supposed to be polite. Generally, I’m way too blunt for my own good, but I know enough to tick about half of the things I want to say off my list. “I appreciate your desire to gentle parent your son, but I don’t have the time to wait for him to be ready to come out.”
“It’s not gentle parenting,” she says. “My husband is very strict with him, as he should be.”
In my job, I see and hear a lot of strange things, but this is throwing me for a loop. “But you can’t ask him to come out?”
