Page 53 of When the Angel Falls First

I specifically went into the world of books and not accounting to avoid moments like this.

My temples throbbed, the incessant headache a result of too much caffeine and too little sleep. I was no closer to a solution than I was when I began.

“Come on!” I slammed my hands down on the counter in an uncharacteristic temper tantrum. The cats jumped at the sudden noise, scattering in different directions, though Heathcliff shot me an accusing glare before making himself scarce. I watched them flee with a twinge of envy. Their lives were simple, despite their ability to seemingly move through walls.

The more I wrestled with the intricate language of US tax laws, the more I was entangled in an administrative spider’s web that threatened to eat the Bookish Cat whole.

I heaved a sigh, massaging my temples as I tried to make sense of the dense paragraphs on my screen.

“‘The Harmonized System…’ Ugh,” I read out loud, my voice a frustrated grumble. “‘The Harmonized System, also known as the HS Code, is a multipurpose, international product-naming system used around the globe. Import duties and taxes are calculated based on the HS which is uniform across all countries in the WCO’—ugh, another acronym to look up—‘determining the basic category of the product.’”

As I recited the next line, “‘Different countries can assign specific numbers to classify goods in more detail for their own use,’” a sudden warmth spread across my shoulders. Startled, I jumped, my words trailing off into silence as I turned to see Barb’s concerned face right behind me.

“Josie, you look terrible,” she said, her voice carrying a worried lilt as she looked over my shoulder at the screen.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I don’t think you’re hearing much of anything—you lookhalfway to zombie, and I’d like to keep my brains intact, thanks. Have you been working on this tax issue all night? How long have youbeenhere?”

The glow of the tablet illuminated her worried face. “I have to figure this out, Barb,” I responded, my voice resolute, if exhausted. “I have to save the Bookish Cat.”

Barb shook her head, her stern gaze softening as she crossed her arms. “You’re working yourself to the bone. You’ll make yourself sick.”

I blinked up at her, my throat tight. “Then let me be sick,” I declared, my tone leaving no room for argument. “Because I have no choice. This is my life’s work. Everything I ever wanted is between these four walls.”

Except Caleb.Even that depressing thought couldn’t make this shitstorm any worse.

“Poor thing.” Barb wrapped her arms around me, but I couldn’t tell if it was because of the tax situation or because she thought it was sad that the Bookish Cat was the only thing with meaning in my life.

After releasing me, and with a sigh, Barb crossed her arms over her chest. “Josie,” she started, her tone surprisingly firm. “Why haven’t you done the most logical thing yet?”

I bristled at her words, my anxiety morphing into irritation. “And what would that be?” I snapped, my tone sharper than I intended.

Barb raised an eyebrow at me, peering over the rim of her glasses. “Do I need to remind you that your family runs one of the most prestigious accounting firms in the state?”

A bitter laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. “No, Barb, not possible,” I retorted, my tone laced with acerbic humor.

“Josie…” Her tone lowered, giving me her best motherly voice. “You’ve got to consider?—”

“I saidno.”

She let out a tense sigh, but after a moment, her expression softened, and she patted me resolutely on the shoulder. “You keep at it then. I’ll take care of the shop today.”

“But I can only pay you for the half shift.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “I’m volunteering. Let’s save this Cat.”

As she said it, Matilda, Gatsby, and Heathcliff sauntered back in, taking up napping places around me.

“Thank you. Thank you, all,” I added for the cats in a whisper.

Regret filled my chest as I thought of my parents. But there was no way I could go to them now, not after everything. I couldn’t bear the thought of looking like a dog with its tail between its legs, begging for help. I had to figure this out on my own. The very idea of them knowing about my struggle, of them holding this over my head for the rest of my life, was unthinkable.

Their staunch disapproval of the Bookish Cat, their dismissal of my passion, had inflicted wounds on my spirit that were as deep as they were jagged. Their failure to see the merit in the path I had chosen for myself, the life I had so lovingly crafted, had formed rifts too vast to cross. Even though a touch of a bridge had been built at Nana’s birthday, we were far from anything that resembled a relationship.

Asking them for help now would only reopen those wounds, and there was no guarantee they’d even help.

I’d rather read tax law by myself. Even if it was convoluted, soul-sucking gibberish.

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