“That’s the one. Seems there’s no room at Shawn’s inn for a spoiled-rotten rescue,” I said. “And I’m betting that’s a first for him. Though Shawn can be intolerant of humans, he usually has endless patience with animals. Until now.”

John’s recliner was Kara’s favorite spot whenever she visited, and she sank into the aging leather cushions. She drew up her legs, her knees touching one arm of the chair. “My kittens are definitely spoiled rotten. Is that noise coming from your basement something I might have to contend with in the future?”

Kara’s two kittens were four months old now. They’d been born to a rescue Shawn had me foster—a loving, sweet cat and the antithesis of Isis. Kara named her calico Mercedes and her orange tabby Ralph. Mercedes had been the name of her best friend in high school, but Kara claimed she’d never met a Ralph until I’d brought her the kittens. Some cats seem to name themselves.

“Ralph and Mercedes show no signs of the diva disease, as far as I can tell,” I said. “Before Isis leaves here, whether to return home or to head to a new family, I hope my three can convince her she’s a cat, not Egyptian royalty like her namesake.”

“Tell me how your undercover operation went today. Did you come off as a decent reporter?” Kara asked.

“Major failure.” I went on to explain what had gone down, more embarrassed than ever about being spotted as a fraud so quickly.

“Ah, the Internet betrayed you,” she said. “It’s a curse and a blessing. But it sounds like you did learn a few things this morning.”

“Not enough,” I said. “I hope Tom and I can figure out what’s happening in that house with a new ruse he and I devised—one I’ve decided I am very uncomfortable with, by the way.” I told her about Ed’s connection to Ritaestelle and what I’d brought home from his shop.

Kara laughed. “I can’t see you as a spy. But Tom? Let him take the lead tomorrow. He’s got the experience.”