3: 3

3

I didn't ask Inkblot who she was.

I threw off the covers, pulled a coat over my shoulders, and went straight for the bedroom door.

I hit every light in the living room.

"Everybody out here." I stood at the top of the stairs, my voice cutting clean through the dark.

A minute later.

Genevieve came out of the first-floor guest room, a coat draped over her, her face like a storm.

Cara rubbed her eyes and poked her head out, all confusion.

Sarah came last, in a neat set of pajamas, her eyes sharp and wary.

All three of them stood in the living room.

"What kind of fit are you throwing in the middle of the night?" Genevieve said coldly.

"Inkblot just talked to me."

I sat down on the couch and pointed at the cat on the coffee table.

"It said that when Henry died, the killer was standing right outside the door."

Genevieve's gaze cut toward Cara like a blade.

Cara went pale and took a step back, but her eyes locked hard onto Sarah.

Only Sarah.

She didn't look at anyone.

She stared at Inkblot on the coffee table, and panic flickered deep in her eyes.

One second was all it took. I caught it.

"Which one of you was outside the door?" I asked softly.

"Char, you must have had a nightmare." Cara put on a pained, tender face. "How can you take a cat's words seriously?"

"That's right, you've been under too much strain." Sarah chimed in. "We were all home that night. Who would ever hurt Henry?"

I ignored them.

I turned and went into the kitchen and came back with three identical little porcelain bowls.

I set one down by each of their feet.

"Inkblot."

I tapped the coffee table.

"Go. Find the one."

The cat stood and stretched.

It hopped off the table and circled Genevieve's feet once.

Genevieve gave a cold snort and didn't move.

The cat went to Cara next.

Cara clutched the hem of her pajamas tight.

The cat paused.

Then, finally, it went toward Sarah.

Sarah's breath visibly stopped.

Just as it was about to reach her feet.

It froze.

Its whole body bristled, it let out a horrible shriek, spun around, and shot under the couch.

It refused to come out, no matter what.

Sarah suddenly burst into tears.

They came down in big, fat drops.

"Char, what are you trying to do?" She covered her face, her voice shaking.

"How have you turned so paranoid? Treating the people closest to you like killers, you're going to drive yourself insane!"

That line.

Word for word what she'd said in my last life, when she talked me into signing the papers.

"You're sick, Char." She came over and tried to pull me into her arms. "Aunt Sarah would never hurt you. Do you not even trust me now?"

I looked at that tear-streaked face.

I forced down the disgust in my chest and played the part of someone breaking down, someone finally convinced.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Sarah." I lowered my head and let a sob into my voice. "I'm just so scared. I don't know who to trust."

"Trust Aunt Sarah. Aunt Sarah will help you." She patted my back gently.

"Henry left something behind."

I lifted my head and looked at her.

"I don't dare keep it in my room. Will you hold on to it for me?"

Light flashed in Sarah's eyes.

"Of course. Leave it with me, don't worry."

I turned and went back to my room and brought out a metal box.

Inside were a few old watches, a few bank cards, and a keychain.

That keychain, Henry never let anyone touch it while he was alive.

I handed the box to Sarah.

She took it and her eyes swept fast over the contents.

When her gaze landed on that keychain.

Her finger stopped, just barely, at the little hole on the side of the plastic shell.

Then it closed again at once, and she smiled, all warmth.

"Get some sleep now. Aunt Sarah will keep watch for you."

I watched her walk back to her room and shut the door.

I turned and found Genevieve standing in the shadows, watching me.

She came over and dropped her voice.

"You gave her the keychain?"

"Mm."

Genevieve let out a cold laugh.

"You've got nerve."

She leaned close to my ear.

"The night Henry died, the power was out in the house."

"But I heard the doorbell ring. Three times."

I turned my head to look at her.

With the power out, the doorbell couldn't work.

Genevieve said nothing more and turned back to her room.

I walked over to the couch and crouched down.

"That night, who rang the doorbell?" I pressed.

The cat's voice came out trembling.

"Not a person."

I drew a deep breath.

I stood and went to the kitchen and got a sewing needle.

The keychain I'd just handed Sarah was a fake.

The real one had been in my pocket the whole time.

I took it out.

I lined the needle up with the little hole on the side and drove the tip in, hard.

A click.

The plastic shell split open.

There were no electronic parts inside.

Just a small chip of dried white wax.

And on the surface of that wax, clear as anything, was Henry's fingerprint.

I peeled back that layer of white wax, careful as I could, and inside was a memory card.

4: 4

4

I hooked the memory card into my phone and read it.

Inside was Sarah's black ledger for the counterfeit drugs she'd cooked up in the abandoned factory, and one transaction record: a payment to a hired killer.

A cold I couldn't shake sat against my skin and kept me awake the whole night.

The moment the sky went pale gray, I quietly packaged every piece of hard evidence and emailed it to the tip inbox of the city Criminal Investigation Division, along with one key lead.

Only after that did I go downstairs.

The atmosphere at the breakfast table was strange.

Aunt Sarah set a bowl of hot oatmeal in front of me.

“Char, you didn't sleep well last night, did you? Eat more. Your color is frightening, so pale.”

Her smile was as gentle as ever, as if last night had only been something I'd imagined.

Across the table, my mother watched with cold eyes and let out a sour little snort.

“Nobody's that nice for nothing. Char, keep your guard up around outsiders.”

“Sister, listen to yourself.”

“I'm Char's own aunt. How am I an outsider? Some people, now, you never see them around, but the second something goes wrong they run off fast enough.”

Genevieve set her chopsticks down with a sharp clack.

“Both of you, be quiet.”

She stood without so much as a glance at me.

“I can't stay in this house any longer. Charlene, I'm moving out today.”

“Where will you go?” My mother put on a concerned face at once.

“None of your business.”

Genevieve turned and walked toward her room.

I didn't try to stop her. I finished my oatmeal in silence, then followed her in.

She was packing a suitcase.

I came up behind her and held out the old apron.

“This is what you most want to take with you, isn't it.”

Her hands froze on the clothes she was folding.

She turned and stared at the apron.

Tucked into its lining was the secret she wouldn't tell me.

“What exactly are you trying to do?” she said, lowering her voice.

“Nothing.” I laid the apron on top of the suitcase. “I only want to know. When was the first time Inkblot spoke?”

Genevieve answered in a whisper.

“A few months before Henry's accident. Your aunt came by one day.”

“What did she come for?”

“To drop off some local specialties.” Genevieve gave a cold laugh. “But I saw it with my own eyes. She secretly fed the cat half a fish, and from that day on, that cat started learning to talk like a person.”

Something jolted through me.

Genevieve lifted her suitcase.

“Charlene, don't blame me for not warning you. There isn't a single good person in this house.”

She pushed past me and left with long strides.

I stood where I was and listened to the front door bang shut.

Then I turned and walked to the living room.

Inkblot lay on the couch, licking its paw.

I took out a piece of fresh fish and set it in front of it.

It came close, a purr rolling in its throat.

“Did Aunt Sarah teach you to say Genevieve was the killer?” I stared into its eyes.

Inkblot clamped down on the fish.

No answer.

“Talk.” I reached out and pinned its head down.

It struggled a moment, then swallowed the fish.

“She gave me canned tuna.”

“So you lied for her.” I said coldly.

“I didn't lie.”

“Genevieve did drug the liquor. She put it in the drink.”

“Then how did Henry die?” I pressed harder.

The cat stopped moving all at once.

It turned its head and fixed its gaze on the memorial portrait on the altar.

“Who was the last person Henry saw?” I threw the question at it again.

A very strange clicking sound came from its throat.

It didn't look at me. It looked at the portrait.

“It wasn't them.”

The cat's voice turned clear, carrying a trace of Henry's own way of speaking when he was alive.

“That night, the person who killed your husband never set foot in this house.”

I stood there, stunned.

Never set foot in the house?

That night, the bathroom window had been bolted from the inside, and there was no sign the front door had been forced.

If the killer hadn't come inside, then how did the half bottle of sleeping pills get into the drink?

And why would Henry end up dead in the bathtub?

“When he came home from outside, he had already drunk it.” the cat went on.

“Who is he?” I grabbed the cat's front paw hard.

It yowled in pain and wrenched free.

It jumped off the couch and ran to the door.

Then it turned its head and stared dead at the front door.

“He's right there.”

The cat raised a paw and pointed straight ahead.

“It's him.”