Page 16 of Watch Me Burn
Maren offers it with a dramatic sigh. “Can you believe this, Rick? She doesn’t trust me. I’m hurt.” He chatters back as if he understands the entire conversation, his little tongue struggling with the sticky peanut butter as he licks his pop.
The corners of my mouth twitch upward, fighting a smile as I read the ingredients. They all look safe enough if he chews on his claws. I hand the bottle back to her.
“Okay, fine, but use the blue because Ricky is a boy.”
“So sexist. I think the red would bring out his eyes.” She sets the red polish aside and pulls his paw from his monkey. “Come on, Rick, Mom said we can do this.”
Ricky looks up and then lifts his hand to wave his pop at me, and my smile widens.
I busy myself unpacking the bags. Raccoons, as a rule, don’t appreciate getting their claws trimmed. Their fight-or-flight instinct kicks in on the spot. Zorro needs to be sedated before we can go anywhere near his claws, but Ricky came to us as a baby, barely a few weeks old, when a car killed his mom, so he’s always had his trimmed. Even the sound of the little Dremel tool Maren is using doesn’t faze him.
I lean my hip against the counter, sorting through the mail. Bills, supply catalogs, donation letters—the usual mix. My bank statement sits at the bottom, the envelope already torn along one edge. I slide my finger under the seal, expecting the usual thin balance after grant payments trickle in and expenses drain out.
One hundred thousand dollars.
I blink hard, certain my eyes are playing tricks on me. But the numbers don’t change. My hands shake, and the paper trembles between my fingers. It’s more than I’ve ever seen in my account at any one time.
“Maren.” My voice comes out strangled.
“What?”
“Look at this.” I thrust the statement toward her.
She glances over, and her eyes widen. “Holy shit. What the fuck is that?”
“I have no idea. I need to call the bank.” My fingers fumble with my phone, nearly dropping it twice before I manage to pull up the number and hit dial.
Hold music drones through the speaker while Maren abandons Ricky mid-manicure and crowds beside me, peering at the statement over my shoulder. After what feels like hours, a voice cuts through the synthetic orchestra.
“Ms. Foster? Yes, I can see the deposit you’re asking about. It came in by wire transfer from an anonymous donor.”
Air rushes from my lungs in a ragged burst. “Is it from the same anonymous private trust that handled my previous transactions?”
Keys click through the phone speaker as she searches. “No. It’s a different tax ID. Also, I see there’s a message here that says it’s for ‘bobcat enclosure.’”
“Thank you.” I end the call before she can say more, turning to face Maren’s stunned expression.
“What the actual fuck, Lu? Who the hell knows about Titus’ enclosure?”
“I don’t know.” My voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater.
“Do you think it could be Damien?” Her face mirrors the confusion spinning through my head.
“I don’t know.”
Apparently, that’s all I’m capable of saying at the moment.
My mind races, trying to make sense of this. I told him about Titus when I showed him around the sanctuary, but that was almost two months ago.
Should I call him? What if it wasn’t him? That would be awkward as hell. Heat crawls up my neck at the thought of that conversation. Him thinking I’m fishing for money, or worse, expecting it.
“You know what?” Maren drops back onto the stool in front of Ricky. “Who the fuck cares who donated it? Titus is getting his enclosure, and with that kind of cash, we can build him a bobcat palace complete with heated rocks, a fucking waterfall, and maybe even a disco ball for when he wants to get his groove on.”
I give her a look like she’s lost her mind. “A disco ball?”
“Hey, don’t knock it until you’ve seen a bobcat dance. I bet Titus has some moves.”
I’m grateful for her humor, but my mind keeps spinning. Could Damien have done this? But why hide behind anonymity? The questions pile up like puzzle pieces that don’t fit, though underneath the confusion, relief floods through me. We can build Titus his enclosure.
