Page 10 of Heart Strings & Hotlines
Thank God. Silence.
I pretend to inspect the admittedly out-of-date kitchen until I hear my car back out of the driveway, then I grab my computer bag and head upstairs.
At least the layout is mostly intact up here, and I find the master without too much trouble. Though the lime-green carpeting gives me pause. We’ll all need slippers until renovations are done.
I’ve already hired Boone’s Building to do some cosmetic stuff to the property. Hopefully when he arrives in a couple hours, he’ll be able to tackle, well, everything else too. I’m beginning to believe that Johansson deeply exaggerated the condition of his home. Boone has an excellent accreditation from the BBB, and that’s good enough for me, but I don’t want to go into anything else blind, so I want to see the rest of the property.
The narrator in my head begins an endless to-do list when a terrifying scream startles me. I trip over the loose germ-factory carpet and land face-first on it.
It’s like I can taste toenail clippings.
I heave at the thought while a god-awful wail combines with a honking sound I can’t place.
Standing, I follow the offending sound to a closet and cautiously open the door. With my luck today, there will be a science experiment gone wrong in here.
At the bottom of the closet sits a dirty-looking rat. Its fur is matted everywhere, making it resemble a hairless cat with pointy ears and a head that flops side to side.
It screams at me, so I scream back.
It honks, so I honk back. Okay, perhaps that’s not honking. Shrieking? Yapping? I’m sticking with honking because it’s an unnatural sound.
Then it turns its beady little black eyes my way and lunges. My body reacts on instinct, but as I turn to run, I trip on the same ripple in the snot-colored carpeting.
I land with a hard thud and then wail when nails sink into my skin…what the hell? A dog, or maybe a rat, sits on my back, thumping its leg and honking.
What is this thing? I knew there would be a bad science experiment behind this freaking door.
Rolling to my side, I shove it off me, and the damn thing screams at me again.
It hops toward me, and I hop away. We circle each other, round and round, until I end up backed into the closet.
I immediately fall into a self-defense stance as the furball slowly inches closer. I don’t generally hurt animals, but I will karate chop the hell out of this test-tube nightmare if I must.
Its nose twitches as it scratches its side, causing me to lower my arms an inch, and when I do, I find a photograph pinned to the closet wall. It’s a man I recognize—Mr. Johansson, with some sort of backpack, holding this oversized lab rat to his chest. And right next to the picture is a black contraption that says PupPack across the front.
“That is never going to happen,” I tell the matted creature.
Screams that pierce my brain fill the closet.
“No,” I say again.
More screams.
“No. Who the hell are you? Where’s your family?”
Ear-splitting wailing.
“Fine. Fine, you little asshole. I’ll pick you up, but I’m not wearing you.”
The incessant noise stops as soon as I pick up the dirty little flea-basket. And then the doorbell rings.
“What do I do with you?”
I get a head shake in response.
“Never mind. Maybe that’s your family. Come on.”
Why the hell am I talking to the creature?
