I practically threw the papers at him and then hightailed it back to Marietta, where I burst through the door like a SWAT team member with a key. Imagine my surprise when I found her in the bathroom, where I’d left her, curled up in the cat bed I’d placed on the vanity. She blinked at the light I’d turned on and then gave a ferocious yawn.
“Smug, aren’t you?” I asked as I picked her up.
She stretched a little and purred as we took a tour of the apartment and looked outside to see if there were any paw prints in the flour that dusted my patio floor.
Not a one.
“I suppose you’re going to need a name,” I said.
She blinked again and began to make tiny biscuits on the arm that cradled her.
“Patches. No, that’s not it. Annie ... because you’re an orphan? No. How about Callie?”
She yawned again.
“You have a point. That’s a bit on the nose.”
The cat with no name wanted down, which had me humming “A Horse with No Name.” I even sang a verse about living in an apartment with a cat with no name. She toddled over to her food bowl, and I broke off mid-verse.
What are you doing, Stella? You absolutely cannot give this cat a name, much less sing songs about her.
I couldn’t get attached to this cat. Nor to anyone—at least, not before I’d thoroughly vetted them. I wasn’t going to go through betrayal again. I’d had enough of that, thank you very much. Between my parents and then Ken, I didn’t have it in me to trust again.
With a sigh of resignation, I petted the kitten once more and headed out the door to check around the neighborhood whether anyone had seen a mother cat or kittens.
Maybe someone was looking for a kitten, and I could be an agent for the universal cat-distribution system.
I surveyed neighbors in the other two buildings of the complex first. No luck. Once back at my own unit, I paused in front of Malone’s door.
Nope.
That would be a bad decision.
Upstairs, I got into a lengthy discussion with Mrs. Q, one that didn’t have an end in sight. With absolutely no shame, I interrupted to ask her if she knew that Hulu had episodes ofWheel of Fortunethat she could watch anytime she wanted. In less than an hour, Mrs. Q was signed up for Hulu, had a basic understanding of how to use streaming services on her smart TV, and was plopped down on her sofa shouting phrases at Pat Sajak.
I showed myself to the door.
No one else on the upper floor answered my knock, other than in the apartment directly above mine. When I heard someone taking down the chain, I felt a smidge of giddiness. Now I could find out who’d been listening to “All Too Well” on repeat.
A harried woman not much older than me opened the door.
“Hi, I’m Stella Stark from just below you and—”
Her brow furrowed. “Is Addie being too loud with her music again?”
“Well—”
Before I could finish my sentence, she turned and yelled, “Addie!”
“Oh, really. It’s not a big deal,” I said. “I’m mainly worried because someone’s been playing the ten-minute version of ‘All Too Well’ on repeat and that suggests a breakup of epic proportions.”
The woman sighed. “She had a crush on some boy who’s now going out with her nemesis—at least, that’s what she tells me. I’m April, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said just as she yelled, “Addison Amelia Trimble, get your happy self in here now or that phone will be mine.”
Addie Trimble appeared in mere seconds, but the scowl on her face indicated she wasn’t happy about it. “What?”
“This is our downstairs neighbor, Miss Stella, and she isn’t keen on reliving the Eras Tour over and over and over again, which, as you will remember, is the reason why Mr. Turtleberry moved out of the apartment below us and into another unit altogether.”
