The Talking Cat's Deadly Secret

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The third day after my husband died in the bathtub of our wedding home, the cat he'd kept for ten years opened its mouth and spoke.

"It was your mother-in-law who drugged the liquor. She wants to swindle two hundred thousand out of his life insurance!"

I flew into the funeral hall like a madwoman and clamped my hands around Genevieve Lawrence's throat.

The police searched her room and found half a bottle of sleeping pills.

Genevieve got fifteen years. Right up until they took her to prison, she kept crying that she'd been framed.

But I believed the cat.

Because before he died, my husband had told me it had seen every shameful thing this family ever did.

Six months later, the cat spoke to me again.

"Your own mother took the insurance policy. She wants to hurt you too!"

At the New Year's Eve dinner I dug the policy out of her bag and dumped a bowl of scalding soup over the back of her hand.

Seven blisters rose on her right hand, and still she wouldn't explain why the policy was in her purse.

I cut all ties with her and took the two hundred thousand to my aunt, the one who had always looked after me.

My aunt said she'd manage my money for me, and had me sign seventeen documents.

The cat rolled around on top of the papers.

"Sign. Your aunt is the only person in this world who'd never hurt you."

Three years later, I owed nine million six hundred thousand under my own name.

My aunt had run off with the money, and the creditors cornered me in my rented apartment and snapped my left leg.

I dragged my bleeding knee home, and there was the cat, crouched in front of the little shrine my aunt had left behind, eating fish.

"Your husband was killed by your aunt."

"She's the one who slipped the policy into your mother's bag."

"I lied for her, because she promised me a can of food every single day."

It wasn't until the creditor's rod came down on me that I finally understood.

The cat really had seen all of it.

It just never once promised to tell the truth for the dead.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the third day after my husband died.

...

"Last chance."

I grabbed the cat by the scruff of its neck and pinned it in front of Henry James's black-and-white funeral portrait.

"Say one more wrong word, and I'll cut you open and check what's in your stomach first."

Its pupils narrowed to slits, all four paws scrabbling at the air.

I didn't do what I'd done in my last life, didn't hear it name Genevieve and go tearing into the funeral hall without a second thought.

Cold, I let go, and dropped it on the offering table.

I turned and walked into the kitchen and took out three white porcelain bowls.

In the first bowl, I poured half a glass of clear water.

In the second, I scooped a spoonful of white rice.

In the third, I tore off half of the fish Henry had bought for it before he died.

I lined them up in front of the cat.

It immediately arched its back, eyes fixed on the bowl of fish.

"You want the fish."

I pulled over a chair and sat down in front of the portrait.

"You tell the truth, I give you the fish."

"You tell me half, you only get the rice."

"You lie to me on purpose, and you watch someone else eat."

The cat licked its lips.

Hoarse, it repeated what it had said before: "Genevieve drugged him."

I picked up the bowl of water and poured it out on the floor.

"Try again," I said.

The cat lashed its tail, agitated.

I asked my first question.

"Did Genevieve go into the bathroom?"

"She did." No hesitation.

I nudged the rice a little closer.

I went straight to the second question.

"Who touched Henry's glass?"

The cat's eyes rolled in a slow circle.

"Your own mother."

I laughed.

I picked up the bowl of rice and tipped it straight into the trash.

The cat panicked, claws raking the wooden table with an ear-splitting screech.

"I told the truth!"

"It is true," I said, staring into its eyes. "But you didn't tell all of it. I asked who touched the glass, and you picked out the one person you wanted to name."

I lifted the bowl of fish.

The cat let out a frantic whine.

"Last question."

I held the fish over its head.

"The last person Henry saw, who was it?"

The cat opened its mouth, about to spit out a name.

But the instant its eyes landed on the fish, it snapped its mouth shut.

It bit down on the edge of the fish next to my fingers and dragged it backward.

It wouldn't make a single sound.

I let go.

The cat carried the fish off and slipped under the couch.

In my last life, I'd thought of it as a recorder that could only play back the truth.

Now I understood.

It never answered according to the truth.

It answered according to whatever it thought would earn it food.

Whoever gave it the biggest treat, that was whose deadliest line it would bury.

I stood up and walked straight to Genevieve's room.

The door wasn't locked.

I pushed it open. The room was thick with the smell of dried citrus peel.

Genevieve had her back to me, sitting on the edge of the bed, folding clothes.

"What are you coming in here for?" She didn't turn around.

"Looking for something."

I went to the wardrobe and pulled the doors open.

"Charlene Swanson, have you lost your mind?"

Genevieve turned, looking at me with disgust.

"Henry's only been gone three days. You've had a terrible shock, so I'll let it go. Get out."

I ignored her.

I dug through the wardrobe and zeroed in on an apron in the corner.

In my last life, this was the apron the police found half a bottle of sleeping pills in, tucked in the pocket.

I reached in.

No pill bottle.

My fingertips hit a stack of stiff paper.

I pulled it out to look.

Three supermarket receipts.

Dated within the week before Henry died, three days running.

Only one item on each: bitter-melon juice.

"He was drinking this?" I held up the receipts.

Genevieve's face shifted slightly.

"He was running hot lately. I had him drink it. Is there a problem?"

"He hated anything bitter." I looked her in the eye. "Three years of marriage, and I never once saw him touch bitter melon."

"There's a lot you don't know."

Genevieve came over and tried to snatch the receipts.

I twisted my wrist and dodged her.

"The night he died, did you have him drink this too?"

Her hand froze in midair.

She looked at me, panic flickering through her eyes.

"What are you trying to say? That I poisoned my own son?"

"I didn't say that."

I folded the receipts and tucked them into my pocket.

"I'm just curious why the medical examiner's report only says there was alcohol and sleeping pills in his stomach."

The room went dead silent.

A long time passed.

Then Genevieve dropped her voice.

"You think you can dig your way to the bottom of this?"

She took a step forward, closing in on me.

"Henry didn't die in the bathtub."

She didn't explain any further.

She reached into the lining of the apron and fished out a note.

She pressed it into my hand and clamped down hard on my wrist.

"Get out."

She shoved me out of the room.

The door slammed shut behind me.

I opened my palm.

On it were only four words in Henry's handwriting.

"Don't trust the cat."