“Cats have twins?”
“It happens. Not a lot, but these two guys are identical. I can’t tell them apart.” I take him to the last row where the boys are. “Meet Hercules and Hades.”
“They’re huge.”
“They are only about five months old.”
His face softens as I take one out and place it in his arms. Not so tough right now, is he?
I watch, fascinated and mesmerized, as this stone-cold psycho scratches the kitten under his chin. “Hey buddy. Want to come home with me? Fran will love you.”
My stomach sours. Of course he has a girlfriend. Despite being a murderer, he’s good-looking and apparently great with cats.
What am I thinking?
What am I doing showing him my favorite cats?
“Girlfriend?”
His eyes darken. “No.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.
Maybe he has a kid.
“I’ll take them.”
“Do you have something to transport them in? You’ll need two litter boxes, food, toys.”
He ignores me and pulls his cell phone out and hits the call button for a guy named Deacon. “Yo. Get everything set up for two cats. Yeah. Two of everything. Need it ready within the hour.” He hangs up on them and looks at me expectantly. “Happy?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a crate or something?”
“We don’t typically loan or sell them. Our resources are spread thin.”
He pulls out that clip of money again and hands me a wad of hundreds. “You’ve got my address. Bill me.”
“Right. Okay.” I grab one of our transport carriers and put the boys inside.
“Pleasure doing business with you, sweetheart.”
“Excuse me?”
He leans in, too close for comfort. “You got something against being called sweetheart?”
“What if I do?”
“Sounds like a personal problem.” He grabs the handle on the cat carrier.
“You need to sign for them,” I remind him as I close the cage and flip the card to show that it needs to be cleaned.
“You’ll live,” he says, and I can’t tell if it’s a promise or a threat. He drops a stack of bills on the counter in front of Haven. “My donation,” he quips, and then he’s gone.
I’m still trying to process the fact I spent the past twenty minutes in close quarters with a killer when I realize I should have at least watched to see what type of car he drives.
“A friend of yours?” Belinda asks as she stares at the stack of money in disbelief. “There’s got to be at least a thousand dollars here,” she whispers.
