The House

Chapter 51 - Day 6: Shadows and Silhouettes

"The latch is broken," David tells me, and I fold my arms, giving myself a big, encouraging hug. I do not like hearing those words!

"Not recently," he adds when he glances over his shoulder and sees me standing behind him, probably looking as bewildered and unnerved as I'm feeling. "It's easy to bump open from outside."

I utter a muffled shriek, dramatically jumping to the side, when something soft and furry weaves its way between my legs, rubbing against me, and I nervously look down to find the big grey-striped cat sitting on my foot.

This cat is going to be the death of me!

Feeling like an idiot, I stoop and gingerly pick him up, surprised when he purrs, nestling into my arms as if he belongs there. Picking him up was a reflex, and the second I started to do it, I remembered the droplets of blood streaking along David's arm, trickling from the claw marks.

He was right, though; the cat is rather sweet when he is not wet and terrified. His body is warm and comforting near my heart while I watch David, bent over the sideboard, half buried under curtains, inspecting the window.

"I think it's been broken for ages. It doesn't catch properly. The wind must've finally worked it loose last night or this morning, and the cat used it to come in. When the wind began to pick up now, it started banging."

I watch him working the latch into place with some effort until he rises and turns to look at me again.

"I'll use some tools to fix it properly. It's okay, Belle." Reaching out, he rubs his hands over my arms, stopping to scratch the cat's ears when the animal playfully swipes at him.

"Do you see paw prints there?" I ask, and David nods, pulling me closer to see a couple of muddy smears on the window sill that could possibly have been made by a cat scrambling through the window. There is at least one clear print in the mix that definitely belongs to the animal lying in my arms, which causes me to feel a measure of relief, but it is a very small measure.

Satisfied, I turn to go back to the kitchen, my eyes scanning the floor for prints, but it is mostly carpet, with only small sections of parquet floor visible in the gaps where the carpet is non-existent. The rug is threadbare and moth-eaten; if I were David, I would throw it out and give the beautiful patterned wooden floor beneath it some TLC and keep it bare.

My eyes run over the fishbone pattern as I walk to the door leading into the kitchen, and when they catch on a large wet area on the wood, I stop, turning to look at David. The tension seeps out of my shoulders when he drapes an arm around them while he studies the wet mark on the floor with all the interest it deserves. He finally shrugs, nodding at the cat in my arms.

"Might be where Professor Cat-Ass-Trophy sat to lick his butt. He is rather fond of doing that, as you've probably noticed already."

I turn my eyes away from the large teardrop-shaped print to glare at David.

"We're not calling the cat that," I tell him with a chuckle, shaking my head.

"Why not?!" David demands to know, looking shocked by my lack of enthusiasm for his creativity. He folds his arms over his chest, giving me a cheeky, challenging look. "He certainly thinks his ass is a trophy."

"Stop it!" I laugh, holding the cat closer to my chest, and turning away, I carry on with my journey to the kitchen, where our lovely meal is getting cold. If we don't eat it soon, the eggs will congeal unpleasantly, and the bread will turn from warm and crispy to cold and chewy.

"Come on! It's perfect!" David insists, his eyes filled with mirth when I give him what I hope is a withering look, but it only makes him laugh happily.