Page 152 of Tangled Like Us
And I don’t regret the amount of time I spend at the shelters and cat sanctuaries, dedicating one day a week to the local ones. I also try to donate as much money as I can to the shelters in other cities.
People often ask if cats are my passion.
I love them.
But I don’t want to run my own shelter. It’s a managerial headache, and charity work has always been a hobby but not something I crave to devote every waking minute to.
Like right now.
Holding Pumpkin is shattering my heart to a million pieces. I couldn’t do this every day. Go to sleep with the faces of each and every animal in my head. Knowing they haven’t found their forever home yet.
“Jane,” Sasha, the owner, rounds the corner with a clipboard and beaming smile. “We’re closing up in twenty. If there’s anything else you need, just let us know. It was a great day today.”
It was.
Truly great.
Except for this little one…
Sasha walks away, her sneakers squeaking on the tile.
Thatcher bends down closer and pets the sleeping tabby’s tiny head, which seems even tinier against Thatcher’s large palm. “I can take her and keep her in security’s townhouse,” he tells me. Our eyes meet, my mouth falling.
What…he’d do that?
“Is that even possible?” I ask, surprised. “There aren’t rules against having animals in security?”
“Not specifically,” Thatcher says. “It’s not really recommended, but there’s no rule against it either.”
I shake my head. Even if there’s a part of him that might want her himself. I know it’s alsoforme. And I can’t let him do that.
The door jingles open. We both perk up. The only people allowed in the shelter have been potential adopters. Otherwise, the curb is home to cameramen and fans waiting for Thatcher and me to exit.
A girl with French braids and burgundy overalls enters. “Hi, I’m looking to adopt a cat.” I hear her say to the employee at the front. “Jane Cobalt, she…um had an Instagram video of her. Her name is Pumpkin. Is she still here?”
Relief wells inside me. Thatcher touches my shoulder, and I smile while he nods likeit worked out, Jane.It did.
“Ready to push out?” he asks me. Already knowing I’m beyond behind schedule. I’m about to reply but he suddenly frowns deeply. I’ve come to recognize that look. Someone is talking to him in his comms. And it’s not good news.
He touches his ear—his mic. Confirming this.
Something isn’t right.
32
JANE COBALT
There was a break-in.
Atourtownhouse. The security alarms were triggered, and thank God no one was home at the time. It’s the saving grace that I cling on to.
Police and our bodyguards have canvassed every inch of the townhouse.
Secure, they decreed.
Whoever broke in has fled. I’m not sure of the details yet. So many missing links unnerve me and unsettle my stomach.
How did they break in?
