Her skin felt warm, and a bit of late-afternoon heat had sneaked in the door and still lingered. Her mahogany-colored hair was fastened with an elastic band, and the long ponytail hung over one shoulder. The recent addition of auburn highlights made her brown eyes seem more lively and inquisitive than ever. Or maybe she was simply happier these last few months. Her move from Houston to Mercy seemed to be agreeing with her. Small-town life, even for a dedicated city girl like Kara, was apparently helping her cope better with losing her dad. We both missed John, but he would have wanted to see her exactly like this: radiant and full of life.

Syrah came around the kitchen island and rubbed his head against Kara’s calf. She reached down and scratched his head. He began to purr loudly enough to almost drown out the serious squalls coming from the basement.

Kara wrinkled her nose and glanced toward the basement door. “That doesn’t sound like one of your cats. Or is somebody sick?”

“Maybe sick and tired of hearing that noise. Let’s get farther away from the screeching and I’ll explain.”

She opened the refrigerator and took out the tea pitcher. “I need a fix first. This stuff is addicting, you know. Want some?”

I nodded and retrieved the glasses from the living room. I set Shawn’s in the sink and placed mine on the counter so she could pour my tea.

She arched her eyebrows and nodded at the sink. “Someone else was loving your sweet tea today?”

“Shawn. He delivered the houseguest. One who thinks she’s more special than your ordinary cat, I might add. She is the goddess Isis, and as you’ve heard, she’s having a regular hissy fit—pun intended.”

“Isis? The cat that started this whole cloak-and-dagger-pretend-Jillian’s-a-journalist thing?” Kara finished pouring the tea, and with Syrah on my heels, we walked into the living room.