Total pages in book: 199
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
“No, I wreaked havoc on his property when I forgot to put the baby lock back on the kitchen cabinet,” she says, huffing as she hurries around the first-floor landing. “Stephen King can’t help it. He suffers from dementia, and dementia increases his stress levels, and increased stress levels make him want to chew things.”
“Nothing a muzzle won’t cure,” I mutter under my breath.
CJ frowns at me over her shoulder but doesn’t stop climbing. “I heard that. And I’m not going to muzzle him. I believe in letting creatures age with dignity. Especially creatures who I happen to love, and who I don’t want to see wander out into the street and get run over.”
The reminder of how much she adores this crazy old cat sends the frustration in my chest rushing away, banished by the vulnerability in her voice.
“I’m sorry. And don’t worry. We’re going to find Steve. And he’s not going to get run over. Not on my watch.”
Yep. I’m Ed Harris, guiding the astronauts safely home from a failed moon mission in Apollo 13, delivering his brazen vow: We've never lost an American in space, we’re sure as hell not gonna lose one on my watch!
Cat-retrieval failure is not an option.
The time for honor is upon me. It’s my duty to help the woman find her feline.
As we reach the third floor and speed-walk toward the sound of Slavic cursing at the end of the hall, CJ reaches out, giving my hand a quick squeeze. “Let me handle Arno, okay? He sounds scary, but he can be reasoned with. Usually. Sometimes.”
Before I can respond, or suggest that maybe she should go look for the cat while I soothe Arno’s rage with a few crisp one hundred dollar bills, CJ darts through the door to her apartment and into the heart of the chaos.
Arno, a balding man with rheumy blue eyes and too-pink features, gesticulates wildly at CJ and the heavens and hell, and everything in between, but my gut tells me he’s not a threat. He’s angry, yes, but harmless. The real danger is coming from under the sink. Water is gushing out of the cabinet and onto the already soaked carpet, where a stain the size of a small elephant is growing larger every second. It’s completely saturated. If water hasn’t soaked through to the subfloor yet, it will soon, and then this repair is going to go from expensive to sky-high.
I have no idea why Arno hasn’t turned the damn water off, but if he’s too busy yelling to take care of business, I have no problem doing it for him.
Picking my way around the chunks of mauled potato and onion littering the floor—it looks like Stephen King snacked on a few other things, besides piping—I squish through the soaked carpet, kneel down, and reach beneath the sink. The hot water knob sticks, but eventually gives with a squeal, and in just a few seconds I have both the hot and cold water shut off at the source and the situation relatively under control.
As soon as the water stops gushing, the flood of cursing ceases.
“How do you do?” Arno asks in a thick accent.
I turn to see him motioning toward the sink and figure he isn’t actually inquiring about the state of my health. “I shut it off at the source. The valves are under the sink.”
His pale brows furrow as he blinks. “Under sink?”
I nod, trying to keep my voice judgment-free. “Yep. Right there. Under the sink, just turn them all the way to the right. And I’m guessing it’s the same set-up in every unit, so you’ll know next time you have a problem.”
He grunts, seemingly impressed, and I silently wonder how a man can be a damned landlord—or an adult, for God’s sake—and not know how to shut off water to the sink. But this is the same man who thought it was acceptable to install all-over shag carpeting in the unit, even in the kitchen, so he’s clearly not in the habit of tackling apartment issues properly.
“Thank you, Graham,” CJ says, beaming at me like I just saved a baby from a burning building. And though I know I did nothing even close, I can’t deny it feels good to be looked at like that. Especially by her, this woman who is all I think about lately, all I dream about.
She claps her hands together and adds in an upbeat voice, “Now we just need to find Stephen and get this cleaned up and—”
“No, you out.” Arno’s chest puffs as his arms flail toward the door.
CJ’s face goes white. “Oh, no. Please, Arno, I promise nothing like this will ever happen again. I’ll lock the child safety locks every time. Please, I love living here, and I’ve never been late with my rent, not once in three years. Can’t we—?”