Page 5 of Fire and Bones

No feline.

Anticipating a long day, I’d filled Birdie’s bowl with kibble before leaving that morning. Instead of his usual ankle-wrapping welcome, the cat was ignoring me. His way of saying he did not like the dry chow. Or my long absence.

Bird had a point. It was going on ten. I’d been away almost fourteen hours. But I’d managed to finish sorting through the poop.

Satisfied that some of the bony remnants retrieved from the scat were human, I’d bagged samples to send off for DNA testing. I’d also packaged several gifts for the hair and fiber guys. Then, too exhausted to compose a report, I’d dictated a few sketchy notes before heading home.

To a cranky cat.

Who’d soon learn he’d be staying with a neighbor for three days.

Whatever.

All I wanted was a hot shower, the pizza, then bed.

I got my three wishes. Was down and out when Ray Charles burst into song on my bedside table. “Georgia on My Mind.” My current ringtone. You get it, right?

At that moment, I didn’t. My brain was too groggy.

Blinking, I grabbed the phone and checked the screen.

The digits on top said 3:02 a.m. The sequence below announced Katy’s number.

Sweet Jesus!

A veteran of far too many wee-hour calls, I’m convinced that none ever brings good news.

Suddenly rigid with apprehension, I answered.

“What’s wrong, Katy? Where are you?”

“I’m fine. Will you just chill?”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“I often call in the middle of the night.”

That was true.

“Can you please snap to?” she said.

I sat up and scooched back against the headboard. Took a beat. Then,

“How goes it, Katy Matey?”

“Do you know how dorky that sounds?”

“You used to like it.”

“When I was six.”

“Aren’t we in a mood.”

“I am not in a mood.”

First the cat, now my daughter.

“What’s up?” At three a.m.? I didn’t add that.

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