Page 37 of Stolen By the Hit Man
Although Joaquin claimed all the cats in the neighborhood are feral, this one climbs right up into my arms.
Although the doctor’s office was closed after we finished at the courthouse, she let us in after hours. I’ve been advised to rest for a few days to ensure I don’t develop any complications, but I’m otherwise cleared to return home and resume work.
“The doctor emphasized no stress for a while,” I say with a laugh as I pet the little guy. “I guess this is a sign.”
Joaquin kisses me on the forehead as we head into the kitchen, and I go to the office to curl up on the sofa with the cat and a bottle of kitten formula.
An adorable, mewing stray is just what I need after answering that interrogation. I hear Joaquin in the other room filling thekettle and talking to Grady on the phone. "Sounds good. Travel safe...yeah, yeah, you'll be the first to know. No, I don't plan on fucking it up."
I certainly hope I didn't fuck up the interview.
I can still hear the investigator’s accusing tone in my head: Why did you take the gun with you to the compound if all you intended to do was ask for a divorce?
Because I was worried that things were going to go badly, and—shocker—they did.
And then there was the most obnoxious—yet understandable—question of all from the investigator,
Why did you leave the scene of the shooting? And why didn’t you report seeing these men supposedly move a body in the road as soon as you got your memories back? Sure makes you look guilty.
Because they were shooting back. Because I panicked. Because my boyfriend is a hit man and didn’t want to stick around to answer questions?
I managed not to blurt out that past part, and Casey did a good job of helping me give my statement to the detectives. I was free to go after that, but I was told I needed to stay in town for at least a few days.
That’s fine with me. The interview was harrowing, and I still don’t know for sure if I’m going to be charged with any crimes. I’m on pins and needles about it.
In the meantime, helping the little baby take some much-needed formula from a bottle is therapeutic.
Why do I feel like I’ve done this before?
I can’t put my finger on it, but I do have the urge to call home.
I still don’t have my phone back because the investigators are holding it in evidence after conducting a search of properties and vehicles connected to my kidnapping.
Fortunately, my assistant's phone number comes to mind, clear as day. She's understandably frantic and pelts me with questions.
“And you just left the scene of the accident with men you didn’t know?”
"Yes. Yes, I did because one of them looked like an EMT and the other one looked like a cop. And, oh yeah, the part where I couldn’t remember my own name.”
“When are you coming back?”
That last one is an excellent question. And one I will have to deal with sooner rather than later.
“I suppose as soon as the detectives clear me of any wrongdoing.”
“Well, your cats miss you.”
Cats? I have cats?
Wait a minute. Of course I have cats! How could I forget my sandy blond boy, Mister Bananas, and the orange girl, Professor Peaches?
“Oh my god!” I gasp as more memories flood in. “How are my babies?”
She sighs. “They are fine. They are now the boss of me.”
I look at the baby in my arms. “They’re going to have one more sibling. Maybe.”
That is, unless Joaquin wants to keep this one here, with him. I guess we’ll see.
