Page 57 of When the Angel Falls First

What I would have done to pet Heathcliff right then. The purr he gave as I scratched his belly was like my own personal catnip, a calming elixir.

For now, I had to trust that Caleb was working on a solution for those fur-babies. I still had to save my book-babies, or else I would be jobless and homeless, and not have anywhere for the fur-babies to come home to.

What to do about Fred, though. The debate had been raging within me since I hung up with Caleb. On one hand, he was my brother, a Certified Public Accountant, and possibly the only lifeline I had in this tax mess.

On the other hand, reaching out would mean swallowing my pride and admitting my failures not only as a businesswoman but also as a sister who had insisted on going it alone.

And also risking that he might flat out say no.

It felt like being in the middle of a shit sandwich, a tug-of-war between my pride and the potential salvation of theBookish Cat as I scribbled down pros and cons on a discarded invoice.

The pros list started with the most obvious point: “Fred can solve the tax problem.” This was followed by a hesitant, “He might do it for free” and a very desperate, “He could stop the Bookish Cat from becoming the Bookish Tax Evasion Case.”

But as my pen moved to the cons side of the paper, it hovered for longer than I expected. “Fred will lord it over me for the rest of my life,” was the only real con I could find.

There has to be worse than that…

As I began to let my mind wander, the list started to resemble a collection of exaggerated doomsday scenarios.

“Fred might demand that part of the Bookish Cat be turned into a CPA study center, swapping outTo Kill a MockingbirdforTax for Dummies,” I wrote down, envisioning the horrified faces of my regulars as they found their beloved classics replaced by dreary tax literature.

Then I jotted, “Fred might become a Scrooge, counting coins and terrifying the cats with his abacus.”

Then the ideas started flowing.

“Fred could recreate theCask of Amontillado, trapping me in the basement with nothing but a tax manual for company.”

As the list grew longer, each scenario more absurd than the last, I found myself chuckling, which was a relief after all the stress. But behind the humor, the fact remained that Caleb and Barb were right. Calling Fred was the only possible next step, if I wanted to get help before Mr. Anderson closed the doors on the Bookish Cat forever.

With a sigh, I laid down the pen, picked up my phone, and dialed Fred.

Here goes fuck-all.

“Josie?”

I hung up.

Why did I do that?It was such an instinctual reaction at hearing his voice, like my autopilot took over, screeching, “Danger! Abort!”

“Get it together,” I told myself out loud and dialed again.

“Josie? Can you hear me now?”

“Hi, Fred, yes, sorry. I dropped the phone.”Terrible excuse.I cringed at the blatant lie. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”

“Not at all.”

“And I’m guessing you have a lot of things planned for the day?—”

“Some, but nothing critical.”

“It’s just, I was thinking, you know… You’re a CPA.”

“Sure am.”

I winced. Was he getting sarcastic already? Best to just tear off the band-aid.

“I’m in some trouble.”

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