Page 22 of The Leaving Kind

Shit, shit, shit.

Cam scanned the length of the studio for a door and located one back the way he’d already come, set into the side of the tower. He trotted over to it and tugged at the handle. Locked.

He ran back to the window and smacked a palm to the glass. The cat looked up, but Victor didn’t move. Was he sleeping? This late in the day, the sun had traveled to the other side of the house. Cam squinted through the afternoon gloom and watched Victor’s chest. The cat made any movement impossible to detect. Christ. Was the cat absorbing the last of his body heat?

What would it do when Victor’s body cooled?

Stop thinking and move.

Trained instinct took over as Cam quickly assessed his options. He could call for an ambulance, but he should see if he could gain access first. Check for a pulse before he diverted emergency services from someone who actually needed them.

Victor might—

Cam jogged toward the kitchen and tried the door that led out to the patio. The handle turned, and he let himself into the house. The quiet, slightly guilty swish of blood had become a roar. His heart hammered in his chest. But already the image of Victor flat-out on his back had become overlaid with scenes of horror. Cam wouldn’t be able to dispel either until the situation reached its conclusion.

Despite the confusion of rooms, he quickly found his way to the studio. The French doors separating it from a large, comfortable living room were open. Cam slipped through and rushed to kneel beside Victor’s body. Beside Victor.

Before his knees hit the ground, the cat leaped away with a surprised yowl, its white fur fluffed, its tail the width of a corn cob. With a gasp, Victor opened his eyes, took one look at Cam, and yelled.

Cam fell backward, his arms raised as though to ward off an attack of the undead.

It was only after Victor sat up, rising from the floor like a freshly animated corpse, that Cam registered the low note of his yell. Not at all similar to the screeching sounds he’d made a week ago. Also, how in the hell had he sat up like that? Man must have sick ab muscles.

Victor turned on him and blinked. Then he plucked a dark blue cylinder of plastic from each ear. “What the fuck.”

“I thought you were dead!” Cam whisper-shouted. The atmosphere of the house continued to feel off, though that was probably due to his uninvited presence.

Victor scrubbed a hand over his face. “What the ever loving— What are you doing here?”

Having landed on his ass, Cam scrambled to his hands and knees. “I was checking on the mulch and ...” An explanation for his subsequent exploration failed him. “I really thought you were dead, man. You weren’t moving. Your cat was waiting for you to cool down.”

“Jesus, fuck.”

Hearing his own oft-repeated phrase drop from another set of lips almost made Cam smile. Sensibly, he overrode the impulse.

Victor glared at him. “What are you? The Mulch Whisperer or something?”

“No. Yes? I—” Kneeling now, Cam spread his hands and exhaled. “I know it’s none of my business. But you hit your head pretty hard on Tuesday. Or it seemed like you did. And you were upset. I’ve been worried about you. I explained that the other day? Anyway, concussions can be more than a headache. And I am— Okay, I wanted to check on the mulch. I know that’s not my business either, except it sort of is? You don’t want it to rot. And those trees need planting. Moving a tree in summer is pretty dicey already.”

Surprisingly, or perhaps not, Victor hadn’t interrupted him. In fact, he seemed almost broken. He still sat facing Cam. Continued to stare at him in wonder. But whatever he might have wanted to say seemed stuck in this throat.

After about thirty seconds, he shook his head. “Well.”

Cam leaned forward a little. Not brave enough to ask Well, what? but keen to know regardless.

“I guess if you were going to rob me, or murder me, you’d have done it by now.”

Before he could stop himself, Cam said, “Had to check if you had a pulse first. Couldn’t have you waking up while I was taking inventory.”

Victor blinked.

Cam coughed. “Sorry.” More quietly, he continued, “I seriously thought you were dead, man. I was going to check for a pulse before calling 911.”

“I see.” Sighing, Victor scrubbed his face again. “I was meditating.” He shot Cam a rueful look. “You’re right. Last week was difficult. But my pride took the biggest beating, and after spending four—no, five days at the bottom of a bottle, I am a reformed man.” He swept a hand up and down, drawing Cam’s attention to the sweatpants and T-shirt he wore, both more colorful than should be allowed. The sweatpants were splattered with paint and the T-shirt had a rainbow band across the front with the words Hearts & Crafts wrapped around a design at the center.

“I just finished doing yoga,” Victor explained. He touched his ear and then held out his hand to display a wireless earbud. “And was somewhere on the road to Nirvana when a weight seemed to launch itself off my chest, and then you were here and I was yelling.”

“That was a cat.” Cam sat on his heels.