The cat from Victor’s place leaped up on the kitchen chair next to Corazon. “You have no manners,” she said. “Victor had manners. His mother made sure of that.” She had methodically stripped her gun and cleaned it. She didn’t do that very often, even though her gangbanger brother had impressed on her the importance of keeping it clean. But today she didn’t want it to misfire. She knew Vic was dead. Really she had known it the moment she saw his digital camera at his place, but then, when she saw the photos in the safety deposit box, she knew. And she knew after a little thought, who it had to be. The cat was gathering himself to leap onto the table, so she petted him and his bony back arched under her hand. He felt weirdly cold to the touch, cold enough to make the skin creep on her forearm. I must be running a fever, Corazon thought distantly. Stress could do that to you. The cat rubbed insistently against her hand. “Go look out the window at the birds and tell me when he’s coming,” she said, and gently swept the cat onto the floor. He padded across the apartment and leapt to the windowsill for all the world as if he had understood. He glanced over his shoulder at her and then settled on his haunches, the tip of his hanging tail twitching. Corazon felt oddly comforted. She slapped the clip home. Kerry was coming and she would be ready.
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