"Ms. Klondike. Control yourself."
"Why should I?” I snapped. “Apparently, people can murder and get off with a slap on the wrist."
The judge, a woman like me, offered no hint of softening as she said, "Mr. Gavin has shown remorse for his actions."
"Remorse?" The word burst bitterly from my lips. "He's sitting there right now smirking. He's going to walk out of here and go home to his cushy condo. Order in some dinner. Watch television. But my cat… my sweet baby…" My voice broke. "He's in the ground. Rotting because of him."
"Mr. Gavin didn’t realize the animal had an owner.”
“He took him from my balcony.”
“According to you,” the judge pointed out because silly me didn’t have the kidnapping on video.
“Even if Fluffykins somehow managed to wedge his fat ass through the bars and go for a wander, that doesn’t give him the right to kill my cat!” I exclaimed incredulously.
“Ms. Klondike, perhaps rather than blaming others you should look closer to home, after all, you’re the one who put the animal in question outside."
The rebuke hit me like a slap, and I sank back into my seat. I stifled tears as the bastard who stole and murdered my Fluffykins when I went inside to pee received a joke of a sentence.
It wasn't fair. Two cats in the last year both taken from me by pieces of shit. Worthless wastes of space. First, my precious Rosita, who went into the vet for a tooth cleaning but ended up not waking up from the anesthesia because the bloody tech administering the drugs came in too hungover to do their job properly. The free cremation didn’t come close to appeasing my outrage.
Then my Fluffykins, who loved to go outside to birdwatch, abducted by an asshole who’d walked by my place on the first floor and thought hey, I’m just going to take this cat that obviously belongs to someone and kill it.
Would jail time have assuaged my grief? No, but it would have helped. Instead, I’d ended up with a piece of shit judge who went light because this rich asshole showed fake remorse. Such bullshit. How much had she been paid?
I knew Theodore Gavin had money. That money almost saw him not getting charged at all. The cops I’d reported the crime to didn't want to get involved and only did so because I kept insisting—shrilly, with snot and tears running. I forced them to hold Gavin accountable. With the evidence the prosecution provided, and the unavoidable guilty plea because the idiot had posted a picture with my dead cat, Gavin should have gone to jail.
Such bullshit.
I left the courtroom via a side door unwilling to deal with the press. Bad enough I was already getting tagged on social media as the Crazy Cat Lady trying to ruin a promising young man’s life.
I wish I’d ruined it, but I'd failed. Just like I failed to protect my babies. My life, one never-ending clusterfuck of disappointments. What had I achieved? Here I was in my late forties and working a boring, dead-end desk job. I lived in a shitty apartment since I couldn’t seem to save the down payment for a house. My car was getting ready to croak—and I couldn’t afford to fix it when it did. To add the icing to my already crappy existence, I’d hit my forties and been slammed by perimenopause. Hot flashes. Mood swings. Plus, weight gain on top of the extra pounds I already carried around which completely tanked my dating life. Some women turned into hot cougars as they aged, but I was more like a warthog: chunky, with thinning hair and jowly cheeks.
Yeah, my life was pitiful—and my sisters reminded me every chance they got.
As I sat behind the wheel of my car, I thought about hitting the gas and slamming into the brick wall at the far end of the parking lot. Then remembered I had airbags, which, with my luck, would be the only thing still working right in my shitbox.
I didn’t remember the drive home or even parking. The tears hit when I walked into my apartment and saw the cat tree by the window that used to hold my babies and the nearby food dishes still filled to the brim with stale kibble. The crumpled piece of paper that Fluffykins loved to bat around at three am that, even months later, I didn’t have the heart to toss.
Everywhere I looked a memory crushed and I couldn’t help but be sad. I headed outside to my balcony and cursed the fact I’d not taken a higher-up apartment when offered. At the time, I’d not wanted the hassle of moving. That decision cost me the life of my best friend.
Grief overwhelmed and I leaned on the railing and breathed deep, trying to stifle the sobs welling within.
“Going to jump off your balcony and end your pathetic life?” a familiar voice mocked.
I lifted my head to see Theodore Gavin smirking at me.
“What are you doing here?” I snapped.
“Sam thing I was doing when I took your cat for a ride, Skylar.” He said my name in a mocking tone. ‘Visiting a friend.”
“Buying drugs, you mean,” I spat. Rich kids didn’t live or hang out in my low-income building. They only showed up for one thing.
“I’d say the judge’s ruling is cause to celebrate.”
“That court hearing was a joke,” I snapped.
“It was,” Gavin agreed. “And a waste of my time. We both knew I was never going to jail.” The smug smirk made my fist itch.
