Page 13

Naming my cats after various forms of flour and fat is not merely because I am a pastry chef. Pastries were first created by the ancient Egyptians. It only seems fit to honor their descendants.

Marzipan begins eating with the dignity of someone accepting tribute. Eclair, the Calico, immediately attempts to steal from her bowl and receives a hiss so vicious, she abandons the operation.

“Okay,” I tell them, because my therapist says verbalizing things is healthy, though my therapist has never met my cats. “I met a girl.” A stupid lightness catches in my chest, like I’ve missed a stair on the way up instead of down.

Marzipan chews. Regards me. Chews again.

“She helped bury a body. Technically, she made the body, and I contributed roadkill and agriculture, so it was more of a collaboration.”

Tartlet tries to stick her paw into Muffin’s bowl.

“I helped her count prime numbers when she was falling apart, and when I told her the police were a bad idea, she asked if she could help.” I pause, uncertain why my brain is circling this detail. “That’s something.” It lodges beneath my ribs and sits there, warm and stubborn.

Muffin, the enormous Maine Coon I adopted two years ago, bounds onto the counter, dragging his bum like an affectionate draft stopper.

“She doesn’t trust people,” I tell him, scratching behind his ear. “Reasonable. She had mud on her mouth half the time and never complained about that either. You’d like her.”

His purr rattles the countertop.

After everyone has been fed and I’ve showered the bastard’s apartment off my skin, I return to find Tartlet has stolen Muffin’s bed. Muffin has compensated by making biscuits on my jacket over the pocket containing Jubilee’s photograph.

I manage to grab the photograph, but leave him there.

After grabbing yesterday’s croissant from the refrigerator, I open my laptop at the kitchen table and tell myself this is professional follow-up. I’m not very convincing.

Jubilee York.

Her current social media is locked down tight. Private Facebook. Dormant accounts. Almost no photographs. No location tags. Nothing belonging to somebody who wants to be found.

She’s made herself difficult. I find her anyway.

Cannoli launches herself onto the back of my chair and drapes around my neck like a Himalayan scarf. “Whoa, holy Cannoli.” She headbutts my temple. “Yes, Daddy missed you too. Several crimes were committed. Tragically, none involved feeding you.”

I scratch beneath her chin while tracing Jubilee backward through abandoned usernames and cached pages until one finally appears.

jubileeheartshorses.

I stop. Oh…Jules. A sensation, tender and yet sharp, squeezes behind my sternum. She likes horses. The profile is ancient. Horse-show photos. Riding-club pages. Competition results buried beneath old and older websites.

Then I find the pictures. And nearly don’t recognize her.

Her hair is long and copper-brown, reddish where the sun catches it, pulled into neat braids beneath a riding helmet in one photo. She can’t be more than fourteen or fifteen. She’s standing beside a chestnut horse with one arm around its neck and a ribbon pinned crookedly to her jacket, smiling so hard, her eyes are nearly closed. My pulse relocates somewhere inappropriate.

Another photo has her in boots and breeches, dirt smeared across one cheek while she holds up a ribbon like she personally defeated the horse instead of riding it.

I find another where she’s sitting sideways across a saddle, laughing at whoever took the picture. Another beside a jump course. Another hugging the same horse’s enormous face while someone behind the camera apparently failed to convince either of them to pose normally.

She is everywhere. Big smile. Copper hair. Horses. Dirt. Ribbons. No eyeliner. No armor. Then she isn’t.

The photographs stop. Not gradually. One season she’s competing, posting, laughing, using the most aggressively horse-girl username imaginable.

Then nothing. My stomach sinks, and the cursor blinks while I sit.

New accounts appear later. Dark hair. No photographs. No location tags. A person slowly learning how not to leave fingerprints on her own life.

My croissant sits untouched beside me. Cannoli is still wrapped around my shoulders. Marzipan has climbed onto the table and is staring directly at me.

“I know.”