The Talking Cat's Deadly Secret

1: 1

The third day after my husband died in the bathtub of our wedding home, the cat he'd kept for ten years opened its mouth and spoke.

It was your mother-in-law who drugged the liquor. She wants to swindle two hundred thousand out of his life insurance!

I flew into the funeral hall like a madwoman and clamped my hands around Genevieve Lawrence's throat.

The police searched her room and found half a bottle of sleeping pills.

Genevieve got fifteen years. Right up until they took her to prison, she kept crying that she'd been framed.

But I believed the cat.

Because before he died, my husband had told me it had seen every shameful thing this family ever did.

Six months later, the cat spoke to me again.

"Your own mother took the insurance policy. She wants to hurt you too!"

At the New Year's Eve dinner I dug the policy out of her bag and dumped a bowl of scalding soup over the back of her hand.

Seven blisters rose on her right hand, and still she wouldn't explain why the policy was in her purse.

I cut all ties with her and took the two hundred thousand to my aunt, the one who had always looked after me.

My aunt said she'd manage my money for me, and had me sign seventeen documents.

The cat rolled around on top of the papers.

"Sign. Your aunt is the only person in this world who'd never hurt you."

Three years later, I owed nine million six hundred thousand under my own name.

My aunt had run off with the money, and the creditors cornered me in my rented apartment and snapped my left leg.

I dragged my bleeding knee home, and there was the cat, crouched in front of the little shrine my aunt had left behind, eating fish.

"Your husband was killed by your aunt."

"She's the one who slipped the policy into your mother's bag."

"I lied for her, because she promised me a can of food every single day."

It wasn't until the creditor's rod came down on me that I finally understood.

The cat really had seen all of it.

It just never once promised to tell the truth for the dead.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the third day after my husband died.

...

"Last chance."

I grabbed the cat by the scruff of its neck and pinned it in front of Henry James's black-and-white funeral portrait.

"Say one more wrong word, and I'll cut you open and check what's in your stomach first."

Its pupils narrowed to slits, all four paws scrabbling at the air.

I didn't do what I'd done in my last life, didn't hear it name Genevieve and go tearing into the funeral hall without a second thought.

Cold, I let go, and dropped it on the offering table.

I turned and walked into the kitchen and took out three white porcelain bowls.

In the first bowl, I poured half a glass of clear water.

In the second, I scooped a spoonful of white rice.

In the third, I tore off half of the fish Henry had bought for it before he died.

I lined them up in front of the cat.

It immediately arched its back, eyes fixed on the bowl of fish.

"You want the fish."

I pulled over a chair and sat down in front of the portrait.

"You tell the truth, I give you the fish."

"You tell me half, you only get the rice."

"You lie to me on purpose, and you watch someone else eat."

The cat licked its lips.

Hoarse, it repeated what it had said before: "Genevieve drugged him."

I picked up the bowl of water and poured it out on the floor.

"Try again," I said.

The cat lashed its tail, agitated.

I asked my first question.

"Did Genevieve go into the bathroom?"

"She did." No hesitation.

I nudged the rice a little closer.

I went straight to the second question.

"Who touched Henry's glass?"

The cat's eyes rolled in a slow circle.

"Your own mother."

I laughed.

I picked up the bowl of rice and tipped it straight into the trash.

The cat panicked, claws raking the wooden table with an ear-splitting screech.

"I told the truth!"

"It is true," I said, staring into its eyes. "But you didn't tell all of it. I asked who touched the glass, and you picked out the one person you wanted to name."

I lifted the bowl of fish.

The cat let out a frantic whine.

"Last question."

I held the fish over its head.

"The last person Henry saw, who was it?"

The cat opened its mouth, about to spit out a name.

But the instant its eyes landed on the fish, it snapped its mouth shut.

It bit down on the edge of the fish next to my fingers and dragged it backward.

It wouldn't make a single sound.

I let go.

The cat carried the fish off and slipped under the couch.

In my last life, I'd thought of it as a recorder that could only play back the truth.

Now I understood.

It never answered according to the truth.

It answered according to whatever it thought would earn it food.

Whoever gave it the biggest treat, that was whose deadliest line it would bury.

I stood up and walked straight to Genevieve's room.

The door wasn't locked.

I pushed it open. The room was thick with the smell of dried citrus peel.

Genevieve had her back to me, sitting on the edge of the bed, folding clothes.

"What are you coming in here for?" She didn't turn around.

"Looking for something."

I went to the wardrobe and pulled the doors open.

"Charlene Swanson, have you lost your mind?"

Genevieve turned, looking at me with disgust.

"Henry's only been gone three days. You've had a terrible shock, so I'll let it go. Get out."

I ignored her.

I dug through the wardrobe and zeroed in on an apron in the corner.

In my last life, this was the apron the police found half a bottle of sleeping pills in, tucked in the pocket.

I reached in.

No pill bottle.

My fingertips hit a stack of stiff paper.

I pulled it out to look.

Three supermarket receipts.

Dated within the week before Henry died, three days running.

Only one item on each: bitter-melon juice.

"He was drinking this?" I held up the receipts.

Genevieve's face shifted slightly.

"He was running hot lately. I had him drink it. Is there a problem?"

"He hated anything bitter." I looked her in the eye. "Three years of marriage, and I never once saw him touch bitter melon."

"There's a lot you don't know."

Genevieve came over and tried to snatch the receipts.

I twisted my wrist and dodged her.

"The night he died, did you have him drink this too?"

Her hand froze in midair.

She looked at me, panic flickering through her eyes.

"What are you trying to say? That I poisoned my own son?"

"I didn't say that."

I folded the receipts and tucked them into my pocket.

"I'm just curious why the medical examiner's report only says there was alcohol and sleeping pills in his stomach."

The room went dead silent.

A long time passed.

Then Genevieve dropped her voice.

"You think you can dig your way to the bottom of this?"

She took a step forward, closing in on me.

"Henry didn't die in the bathtub."

She didn't explain any further.

She reached into the lining of the apron and fished out a note.

She pressed it into my hand and clamped down hard on my wrist.

"Get out."

She shoved me out of the room.

The door slammed shut behind me.

I opened my palm.

On it were only four words in Henry's handwriting.

"Don't trust the cat."

2: 2

I gripped the note tight.

Don't trust the cat.

Henry had known all along.

I tucked the note into the pocket against my chest and turned toward the living room.

My mother, Cara Henson, sat on the couch holding a cup of hot tea.

The moment she saw me, she set the cup down, her eyes going soft.

Char, why do you look so pale?

She came over and reached out to feel my forehead.

I tilted my head away.

Her hand froze, then withdrew, and she sighed.

You poor thing, always so hard on yourself. Henry's gone, and it hurts. Mom knows.

She pulled me down beside her and lowered her voice.

Your mother-in-law was in there tearing into you just now, wasn't she? I heard it.

She wasn't. I said.

Don't cover for her. Cara patted the back of my hand, aching for me.

She's been mean her whole life. Henry had something wrong with him, and she knew for ages. She just hid it from you on purpose.

My heart jumped.

Those words were exactly the same as the ones she'd used to work on me in my last life.

Last time, I listened to her, and that same night I threw my mother-in-law out.

The next day, they took her in for questioning.

What was wrong with him? I asked.

Cara's eyes flickered.

His heart wasn't good. Your mother-in-law brewed him those bitter medicines every day and never let you see.

I took the three receipts out of my pocket and laid them flat on the coffee table.

Is this what you mean?

Cara glanced at them.

Yes, that's it. Look at the stuff she bought. Is that what you'd give a normal, healthy person to drink?

How do you know that's the kind of drink he was having? I stared into her eyes.

Her smile froze.

I came by the house that day and smelled it.

Which day was that?

It was She stalled.

Aunt Sarah Henson told you, didn't she. I finished the sentence for her.

Cara looked up, startled.

Your Aunt Sarah cares about you too. She was afraid your mother-in-law was mistreating you, that's the only reason she told me.

Char, take your mom's advice. This house belongs to you and Henry. Your mother-in-law, the way she is now, she's going to bring real trouble down on you sooner or later.

Just put her out. Out of sight, out of mind.

I put the receipts back in my pocket.

All right. I understand.

I stood up and walked toward the kitchen.

Aunt Sarah was washing cups.

Her back was to me.

I stepped in and walked right up behind her.

Aunt Sarah.

Her shoulders jerked and the cup nearly slipped from her hands.

She shut off the faucet fast and turned around.

Char, how do you move so quietly? You startled me.

Her hand was hidden behind her back.

I fixed my eyes on that hand.

What are you washing?

Cups. She shifted a step, awkward, trying to block the sink.

These are the ones your mother-in-law just drank from. I was rinsing them while I was at it.

Is that so.

I didn't reach for them.

I turned and called into the living room.

Inkblot, come here.

There was a rustle from under the couch.

The cat walked in, tail high.

It looked up at me, as if waiting for my next order.

Smell them. I pointed at the sink.

Aunt Sarah's face went white.

Char, what are you doing? What could a cat possibly smell out?

She tried to grab the cat, and I blocked her.

Inkblot jumped up onto the counter and leaned close to the two half-washed cups in the sink.

It sniffed carefully.

This cup has a bitter taste. Henry drank from it.

It leaned toward the other one.

The other cup has a sweet taste. Genevieve drank from it.

Aunt Sarah let out a clear breath of relief, and her smile came back.

See, I told you it was the one your mother-in-law used. Look at you, suspecting everyone now.

She reached for the cup with the bitter taste.

Since Henry drank from it, I'll put it away for you. Something to remember him by.

Wait.

I pressed my hand down over hers.

Aunt Sarah, didn't you hear what Inkblot said?

I looked into her eyes.

It only said he drank from it. Not that he was the last one to drink from it.

Aunt Sarah's hand froze.

That night, what time did you leave? I asked.

Her gaze wandered. I left a little after eight. I stayed with you the whole time. I didn't go until you were asleep.

Is that so?

I let go of her hand, slowly.

Last life, the night after my husband was buried, Aunt Sarah had held my hand and said,

Char, don't grieve too hard. Before your husband died, he was out in the yard calling your name.

Back then I thought she was comforting me.

Only now did I understand.

That night, I was upstairs in the bedroom, out cold.

If Aunt Sarah left a little after eight,

how could she know what Henry called out in the yard, before he went into the bathroom?

I looked at that gentle face of hers, and a chill ran all through me.

Night.

I lay in bed, wide awake.

Then, out of the dark, a voice came.

She was right outside the door.

I sat up.

Inkblot was crouched in front of Henry's funeral portrait, its eyes glowing a faint green in the moonlight.

In a low voice, it repeated the same words.

She was right outside the door.

3: 3

I didn't ask Inkblot who she was.

I threw off the covers, pulled a coat over my shoulders, and went straight for the bedroom door.

I hit every light in the living room.

"Everybody out here." I stood at the top of the stairs, my voice cutting clean through the dark.

A minute later.

Genevieve came out of the first-floor guest room, a coat draped over her, her face like a storm.

Cara rubbed her eyes and poked her head out, all confusion.

Sarah came last, in a neat set of pajamas, her eyes sharp and wary.

All three of them stood in the living room.

"What kind of fit are you throwing in the middle of the night?" Genevieve said coldly.

"Inkblot just talked to me."

I sat down on the couch and pointed at the cat on the coffee table.

"It said that when Henry died, the killer was standing right outside the door."

Genevieve's gaze cut toward Cara like a blade.

Cara went pale and took a step back, but her eyes locked hard onto Sarah.

Only Sarah.

She didn't look at anyone.

She stared at Inkblot on the coffee table, and panic flickered deep in her eyes.

One second was all it took. I caught it.

"Which one of you was outside the door?" I asked softly.

"Char, you must have had a nightmare." Cara put on a pained, tender face. "How can you take a cat's words seriously?"

"That's right, you've been under too much strain." Sarah chimed in. "We were all home that night. Who would ever hurt Henry?"

I ignored them.

I turned and went into the kitchen and came back with three identical little porcelain bowls.

I set one down by each of their feet.

"Inkblot."

I tapped the coffee table.

"Go. Find the one."

The cat stood and stretched.

It hopped off the table and circled Genevieve's feet once.

Genevieve gave a cold snort and didn't move.

The cat went to Cara next.

Cara clutched the hem of her pajamas tight.

The cat paused.

Then, finally, it went toward Sarah.

Sarah's breath visibly stopped.

Just as it was about to reach her feet.

It froze.

Its whole body bristled, it let out a horrible shriek, spun around, and shot under the couch.

It refused to come out, no matter what.

Sarah suddenly burst into tears.

They came down in big, fat drops.

"Char, what are you trying to do?" She covered her face, her voice shaking.

"How have you turned so paranoid? Treating the people closest to you like killers, you're going to drive yourself insane!"

That line.

Word for word what she'd said in my last life, when she talked me into signing the papers.

"You're sick, Char." She came over and tried to pull me into her arms. "Aunt Sarah would never hurt you. Do you not even trust me now?"

I looked at that tear-streaked face.

I forced down the disgust in my chest and played the part of someone breaking down, someone finally convinced.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Sarah." I lowered my head and let a sob into my voice. "I'm just so scared. I don't know who to trust."

"Trust Aunt Sarah. Aunt Sarah will help you." She patted my back gently.

"Henry left something behind."

I lifted my head and looked at her.

"I don't dare keep it in my room. Will you hold on to it for me?"

Light flashed in Sarah's eyes.

"Of course. Leave it with me, don't worry."

I turned and went back to my room and brought out a metal box.

Inside were a few old watches, a few bank cards, and a keychain.

That keychain, Henry never let anyone touch it while he was alive.

I handed the box to Sarah.

She took it and her eyes swept fast over the contents.

When her gaze landed on that keychain.

Her finger stopped, just barely, at the little hole on the side of the plastic shell.

Then it closed again at once, and she smiled, all warmth.

"Get some sleep now. Aunt Sarah will keep watch for you."

I watched her walk back to her room and shut the door.

I turned and found Genevieve standing in the shadows, watching me.

She came over and dropped her voice.

"You gave her the keychain?"

"Mm."

Genevieve let out a cold laugh.

"You've got nerve."

She leaned close to my ear.

"The night Henry died, the power was out in the house."

"But I heard the doorbell ring. Three times."

I turned my head to look at her.

With the power out, the doorbell couldn't work.

Genevieve said nothing more and turned back to her room.

I walked over to the couch and crouched down.

"That night, who rang the doorbell?" I pressed.

The cat's voice came out trembling.

"Not a person."

I drew a deep breath.

I stood and went to the kitchen and got a sewing needle.

The keychain I'd just handed Sarah was a fake.

The real one had been in my pocket the whole time.

I took it out.

I lined the needle up with the little hole on the side and drove the tip in, hard.

A click.

The plastic shell split open.

There were no electronic parts inside.

Just a small chip of dried white wax.

And on the surface of that wax, clear as anything, was Henry's fingerprint.

I peeled back that layer of white wax, careful as I could, and inside was a memory card.

4: 4

I hooked the memory card into my phone and read it.

Inside was Sarah's black ledger for the counterfeit drugs she'd cooked up in the abandoned factory, and one transaction record: a payment to a hired killer.

A cold I couldn't shake sat against my skin and kept me awake the whole night.

The moment the sky went pale gray, I quietly packaged every piece of hard evidence and emailed it to the tip inbox of the city Criminal Investigation Division, along with one key lead.

Only after that did I go downstairs.

The atmosphere at the breakfast table was strange.

Aunt Sarah set a bowl of hot oatmeal in front of me.

Char, you didn't sleep well last night, did you? Eat more. Your color is frightening, so pale.

Her smile was as gentle as ever, as if last night had only been something I'd imagined.

Across the table, my mother watched with cold eyes and let out a sour little snort.

Nobody's that nice for nothing. Char, keep your guard up around outsiders.

Sister, listen to yourself.

I'm Char's own aunt. How am I an outsider? Some people, now, you never see them around, but the second something goes wrong they run off fast enough.

Genevieve set her chopsticks down with a sharp clack.

Both of you, be quiet.

She stood without so much as a glance at me.

I can't stay in this house any longer. Charlene, I'm moving out today.

Where will you go? My mother put on a concerned face at once.

None of your business.

Genevieve turned and walked toward her room.

I didn't try to stop her. I finished my oatmeal in silence, then followed her in.

She was packing a suitcase.

I came up behind her and held out the old apron.

This is what you most want to take with you, isn't it.

Her hands froze on the clothes she was folding.

She turned and stared at the apron.

Tucked into its lining was the secret she wouldn't tell me.

What exactly are you trying to do? she said, lowering her voice.

Nothing. I laid the apron on top of the suitcase. I only want to know. When was the first time Inkblot spoke?

Genevieve answered in a whisper.

A few months before Henry's accident. Your aunt came by one day.

What did she come for?

To drop off some local specialties. Genevieve gave a cold laugh. But I saw it with my own eyes. She secretly fed the cat half a fish, and from that day on, that cat started learning to talk like a person.

Something jolted through me.

Genevieve lifted her suitcase.

Charlene, don't blame me for not warning you. There isn't a single good person in this house.

She pushed past me and left with long strides.

I stood where I was and listened to the front door bang shut.

Then I turned and walked to the living room.

Inkblot lay on the couch, licking its paw.

I took out a piece of fresh fish and set it in front of it.

It came close, a purr rolling in its throat.

Did Aunt Sarah teach you to say Genevieve was the killer? I stared into its eyes.

Inkblot clamped down on the fish.

No answer.

Talk. I reached out and pinned its head down.

It struggled a moment, then swallowed the fish.

She gave me canned tuna.

So you lied for her. I said coldly.

I didn't lie.

Genevieve did drug the liquor. She put it in the drink.

Then how did Henry die? I pressed harder.

The cat stopped moving all at once.

It turned its head and fixed its gaze on the memorial portrait on the altar.

Who was the last person Henry saw? I threw the question at it again.

A very strange clicking sound came from its throat.

It didn't look at me. It looked at the portrait.

It wasn't them.

The cat's voice turned clear, carrying a trace of Henry's own way of speaking when he was alive.

That night, the person who killed your husband never set foot in this house.

I stood there, stunned.

Never set foot in the house?

That night, the bathroom window had been bolted from the inside, and there was no sign the front door had been forced.

If the killer hadn't come inside, then how did the half bottle of sleeping pills get into the drink?

And why would Henry end up dead in the bathtub?

When he came home from outside, he had already drunk it. the cat went on.

Who is he? I grabbed the cat's front paw hard.

It yowled in pain and wrenched free.

It jumped off the couch and ran to the door.

Then it turned its head and stared dead at the front door.

He's right there.

The cat raised a paw and pointed straight ahead.

It's him.