"Which room?" Etienne asked Hastings.
"Room seven. First floor. Booked under the name Mary Murphy."
We climbed the stairs to the first floor, our footsteps echoing on the threadbare carpet. The building smelled of fish and chips and damp.
I knocked on the door to room seven. "Maeve? It's me. It's Presley."
Silence.
I knocked again, harder. "Maeve, please. I know you're scared, but I'm here. With friends. We want to help."
More silence.
Fritz tried the handle. Locked.
Hastings pulled something from his pocket—a slim leather case. He flipped it open, revealing lockpicks that gleamed in the dim hallway light.
"Seriously?" I asked.
"Useful skill," he said, already working on the lock.
Thirty seconds later, the door swung open.
The room was small, shabby. A single bed with a faded quilt. A window overlooking the car park. A tiny bathroom with a shower that had seen better days.
And it was empty.
"She's not here," I said, my voice breaking. "We're too late. He found her. He—"
Mr. Cheddar launched himself out of my arms.
He landed with a thump on the carpet, his tail lashing. He crossed the room in three bounds and stopped at the closet door.
He sat. Looked at us. Then let out the loudest, most insistent meow I'd ever heard.
And he started to purr.
"The closet," Fritz said.
Etienne crossed the room and pulled open the closet door.
At first, I didn't see anything. Just clothes hanging on wire hangers. A spare blanket on the shelf.
Then the pile of clothes on the floor moved.
A face emerged from beneath a cardigan and a pair of jeans. Green eyes. Black hair. Tear-streaked cheeks.
"Maeve," I breathed.
She stared at us, her eyes wild with fear. "How did you find me?"
"Your cat ratted you out," Fritz said, gesturing at Mr. Cheddar, who was now rubbing against the closet doorframe and looking pleased with himself.
"That's not my cat," Maeve said, but she was already scrambling out of the closet. "That's Presley's grumpy bastard who I've been feeding because she abandoned him."
"I didn't abandon him! I just—" I stopped. "Wait. You've been feeding him?"
"Of course I've been feeding him. What kind of monster do you think I am?" Maeve brushed off her jeans, trying to regain some dignity. "He showed up at my door every morning looking pathetic."
