Chapter 13

Saoirse’s still a little groggy when she arrives at the Providence Animal Rescue League the next morning. Lucretia and Roberto are waiting for her by the counter, and a woman whose name tag identifies her as Heather leads them down a corridor to a room where eight curious cats blink at them from behind the glass of their respective enclosures.

“They’re all so cute!” Lucretia jumps up and down, holding her hands up like little paws.

Roberto smacks her arm lightly. “There are empty cages, Lucretia. Be careful, or they’ll put you up for adoption too.” He turns to Heather. “Don’t worry, anyone that took her home would bring her back within the week.”

Heather smiles good-naturedly, then turns to address Saoirse. “I’ll let you get acquainted with the animals and be back in a few minutes.”

“Thanks,” Saoirse says and watches Heather walk out before turning back to the wall of enclosures.

“Five black ones,” Lucretia says. “I told you black cats were the hardest to place. Though, Midnight is the only entirely black one. Aww, but his little card says he has diabetes!”

Saoirse stares at Midnight. Adopting a cat with diabetes would be a lot of work. But Saoirse knows how it feels to be discounted due to a diagnosis. “Hello, Midnight,” she whispers.

“Now that we’re ensconced within the privacy of Catdom,” Roberto says, “are you going to tell us why you look so exhausted?”

Saoirse turns to face him, momentarily forgetting her feline audience. “Believe it or not, I was writing.”

“Oh. My. Gosh. Yes, Saoirse!” Lucretia hugs her. “You’re over your block, then? And I’m sorry, but I have to ask, was it whatever happened during the séance that unblocked you?”

Saoirse shrugs. “Maybe? I’m still not entirely sure what happened during the séance. But after everyone left that night, I went upstairs, and a poem poured right out of me.”

Lucretia grabs her arm. “Wait, a poem? Didn’t you used to write cozy mystery novels? I didn’t know you wrote poetry too.”

“I didn’t. At least, not seriously. I mean, I had some notebooks filled with poems from over the years, but they were nothing I ever bothered to show anyone.”

Lucretia and Roberto exchange a glance.

“What?” Saoirse looks back and forth between the two of them. “What is it?”

Lucretia busies herself looking into the cubby where a cat named Bubba has rolled onto his back and is pawing at the air. When she looks over again, there is something in her face that Saoirse has never seen before. It’s something a little bit teasing and a little bit scared.

“I mean, you can’t tell me it didn’t occur to you. What a weird coincidence it is that Sarah was a poet, and now, after the longest dry spell in the history of your writing, you come back, more prolific than ever and writing poetry? That’s gnarly. Out there. Isn’t that out there, Roberto?”

Roberto gives Saoirse a pointed look. “You know how much I hate agreeing with her, but Lucretia’s right.”

Saoirse turns back to Midnight, feigning nonchalance. “If you two are going to make such a big deal about my return to writing, then I totally shouldn’t tell you who I had tea with yesterday.”

“You should,” Roberto says, grabbing Saoirse’s elbow and turning her toward him. “And you will. You’ll tell us right this instant.”

“Emmit freakin’ Powell. I guess he’s a professor with Brown’s MFA program. He ran into me on campus there, at a career fair. Literally. He bowled me over, then asked to take me to Carr Haus to make it up to me.”

Roberto’s eyes practically bug out of his head. “Um, duh, that he’s a professor with Brown’s MFA program. He’s also one of the most amazing writers to come out of the twenty-first century. Do you know he’s technically a horror writer? Now, his agent and the people at his publishing house don’t market him as such, because horror is genre fiction, and genre fiction is smut to be looked down upon by book snobs everywhere. But you cannot convince me that Vulture Eyes is anything but revolutionary, transcendent literary horror. The guy is a modern-day Edgar Allan Poe!”

Saoirse freezes at the comparison, but Roberto doesn’t notice and continues, “ Vulture Eyes is astonishingly terrifying but also gorgeous and lyrical and heartbreaking. Oh my god, Saoirse, I can’t believe you got to sit down with him. Did you talk about writing? Did he say anything about where he got the idea for Vulture Eyes ? Some of those passages where the protagonist was trying to escape his guilt by any means possible were written as if they’d really happened! And did he reveal anything about his next novel?”

Saoirse hasn’t heard Roberto say so much in a single breath since she met him. “We did talk about writing. But mostly, we talked about death.”

“Death?” Lucretia looks worried. “Did you bring it up or did he?”

“He did, I think. Or, maybe it was me? I can’t remember. That’s what the whole conversation was like. Like I couldn’t tell where my thoughts ended and his began.”

“Oh, shit,” Roberto breathes. “So you guys hit it off?”

“We started to.” Midnight holds a paw up to the glass, and Saoirse presses a finger to the little black pad. “But then he got all weird on me. I’m talking Play Misty for Me level of weirdness.”

“Seriously?” Roberto says, then stops, looking confused. “Wait, isn’t Play Misty for Me about a woman who gets all obsessive and stalkerish?”

“Come on, Roberto,” Lucretia chastises. “Don’t be so rigid in your obsessive stalker gender stereotypes.”

“Right, whatever. But what exactly did he do?”

Footsteps sound in the corridor outside. “He told me he gets premonitions,” Saoirse says, “and that he had a premonition he was going to run into me, or something. That something momentous—on par with the idea for his first novel—was going to happen, and then he met me.” The door opens, and Heather walks into the room.

“Saoirse,” Roberto says with deadly seriousness, “please, for the love of Mother Earth, and of great literature, you must see this man again. It’s Emmit Powell! The guy is a goddamn genius. Of course he’s going to be eccentric.”

“I think Roberto has a crush on him,” Lucretia teases. She smiles and winks at Heather, who gives her a confused smile in return.

“Of course I have a crush on him,” Roberto shouts. “He’s Emmit freakin’ Powell, as Saoirse herself accurately described when she told us they had lunch. I’d date him in a second.”

“It was tea,” Saoirse clarifies.

“He does seem really cool,” Lucretia offers. “Did you get his number?”

“Can we talk about this later?” Saoirse asks. She nods in Heather’s direction.

“Have you decided on a cat who would be a good fit for you, Ms. White?” Heather asks. “Or did you want to interact with a few of them before making your decision?”

Lucretia starts to say something, but Saoirse holds up her hand. “I don’t think that will be necessary.” She gestures to Midnight. “This little guy and I have a connection.”

Heather nods cautiously. “Do you have experience caring for a cat with diabetes?”

“I’m sure I can figure it out.” Sensing she needs to say more to convince the shelter worker, Saoirse adds, “I’m currently in a position where I can afford to step away from work for a bit, so I have the resources and the time.”

Heather smiles. “That sounds like a great fit for Midnight. Let’s go back to my office. After a few more questions and some paperwork, Travis will give you a crash course in low-carbohydrate diets and fast-acting insulin therapy.”

Lucretia hooks her arm into Roberto’s and forces him around in a little circle. Roberto tries to rebuff her but can’t help himself and breaks into a smile. Saoirse shakes her head in mock exasperation and ushers them toward the corridor.

“Great timing by the way,” Heather says as she closes the door behind them.

“Were there others interested in adopting Midnight?”

“I just meant it’s almost Halloween. Isn’t there a spooky story about a black cat that’s really famous? I read it in high school. By that guy who wrote a lot of spooky stories, what’s his name again ...?”

Saoirse, Roberto, and Lucretia exchange a look.

“Edgar Allan Poe?” Roberto offers wryly.