I let out a gasp of horror. I cup my hand over my mouth as waves of nausea roll through my stomach and leave a burning trail up the back of my throat.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
I stagger to the couch, heart wrenching in pain. Reaper is lying in a heap beside the couch. His mouth is open, eyes wide and unblinking. I drop to my knees, shrieking his name, hands all over him, but he doesn’t respond. And when I lift my hands to my face, they’re covered in blood.
—
I sit quietly on the hard-backed chair, bent forward, cheek pressed against my knee. The teenage receptionist taps away at her keyboard, and though I can’t see her, I feel her eyes on me. I haven’t moved since a vet nurse dashed out, grabbed Reaper from my shaking arms, and disappeared with him behind the gray door. I slumped on the chair, shaking uncontrollably, and the receptionist came over, squeezed my shoulder, and offered me a tissue. I didn’t realize I was crying.
It feels like hours since I discovered Reaper lying still beside thecouch. His mouth and neck were stained with blood, and his eyes were glassy and still. For a horrifying moment I thought he was dead, but I felt a weak pulse beating fitfully. I scooped him up and sped to the emergency vet. I burst through the door, screaming, “Help! Please!”
Reaper. I cry into my lap. Reaper. My baby. The only remnant of my life before I was Sarah Slade, other than my cheating husband.
Memories of our five years together drift through my head. Me, dressing Reaper up for his birthdays in pirate costumes, and him, hating every minute of it. That time when Joe’s drinking buddy, Andy, patted him and he whirled around and bit him. That shitty first Christmas when I cooked a chicken and he snatched it off the table and bared his claws when I tried to make him give it back.
My angry, vengeful, beautiful boy. God, I love that cat.
My head’s still in my lap when I hear the door swing open. Brisk footsteps stop just short of me, and a harried voice calls out, “Sarah?”
Weakly, I glance up. The vet is dressed in sky-blue scrubs, her hair in a messy bun, mouth tight and grim. Oh God.
“Is he okay?” I croak out. Amazing how powerless hospital waiting rooms can make you feel.
She hesitates, and I swear to God my lips go numb.
“It looks quite serious,” she says carefully, but my heart lurches in relief. He’s alive. He’s alive.
But a moment later she asks, “Has he ingested anything he shouldn’t have?”
I stand up, knees and hands trembling. “I don’t know. I brought him here a few weeks ago,” I babble, swiping at my eyes with the cuff of my jacket. “Or was it last week? I can’t remember.”
I’m so distracted by the timeline that at first I miss the importance of her question. Has he ingested anything he shouldn’t have?”
I narrow my eyes, blood going cold. “Why?”
She presses her lips together, shuffles in her spot. “Because,” she finally says, “I think he’s been poisoned.”
—
I drive home without Reaper. I sit stiffly on my couch, flick on the TV, without Reaper. I walk to the kitchen and fill a shot glass with whiskey, without Reaper. I drink it all in one gulp and feel the pleasant burn all the way down to my toes. I pour another before carrying it back to the couch. I sit stiffly on the edge of the seat, right where I found Reaper all those hours ago. I stare at the silently flickering TV, thinking only of him.
I brought Reaper to Black Wood House. I didn’t know the danger he’d be in. Didn’t know how crazy the neighbors were. Didn’t know that someone would be so evil as to poison him. But I brought him here.Idid.
The thought hits me like a fist to the jaw. Oh my God. What if the poison was intended for me? Not Reaper? My baby. My poor baby.
If we’d never bought this house, he wouldn’t be dying.
I think he’s been poisoned.
I think he’s been poisoned.
I think he’s been—
I hurl the glass at the wall, and even before it shatters, I stand up, wild-eyed and woozy. Fuck this. Fuck Beacon. They think they can bully me out of this place like they did Amanda? They think I’m going to let them get away with this?
I grab my keys, stomp to the kitchen, and take another shot until my blood feels uncomfortably hot. Around me, the walls of the house seem to vibrate like they’re shouting encouragement.
Yes! That’s it, Lizzy. Get them. Get them. Make them pay.
