"They checked out this morning. I can check their room for any loose feathers if that might help."

Would it? Worth a shot. "Yeah, thanks. I still can't figure out why anyone would come to Maine in the winter."

In February we had one temperature. Cold.

There was only one thing to look at. Snow.

"I'll head up there in a minute and let you know."

"Thanks," I said, ending the call and then starting another one after checking the number from an image in my photos.

It rang and rang. Whatever number the Wilcox gave when they signed into the bed-and-breakfast, they weren't concerned with actually answering it.

The voicemail kicked in, and I left a quick message, trying not to sound suspiciously like I wanted to convict them of murder. What did I say? Hi, did you leave a dead bird back in Pelican Bay? These questions were things I had to ask them personally.

I did another circle in the living room and then pocketed the phone. If I didn't want to go insane, I had to stay busy. I still had a few hundred things to do that day from my to-do list, like hopefully move at least three more loads into the new place. I didn't have time to have a full-fledged freak-out. It had to wait 'til later.

Since I was so close to his mansion, I left my new rental and drove to Frankie Zanetti's place to feed his cat. The man had a team of bodyguards, but I guess he didn't trust one of them to stay home and take care of the family tabby. What did that say about his hired help?

I couldn't decide what that meant for me. Did he trust me or hate me?

Either way, I had a cat to feed. I parked Rachel in his driveway and made my way to the backdoor. The spare key was right where my mother promised, under the empty flowerpot. Even Frankie couldn't get flowers to grow in Maine's winter. At least some things didn't listen to him.

"Here, kitty, kitty," I said, stepping into the deserted home.

The kitchen was quiet and spotless. At first glance, the only sign of trouble was a dishtowel pulled from the oven handle and discarded in a heap on the floor. Odd but not concerning.

It was weird being in Frankie's home alone, and I kept waiting for someone to jump out at me and yell, "Gotcha."

"Here, Spencer. Spencer. Spencer." What the hell did you say to get a cat to come? If I were here to feed a dog, they'd already be jumping on me.

Also, did Frankie know he'd named his cat after a guy who worked for Ridge?

The home smelled like fresh flowers as I walked through the kitchen, determined to find the cat and be on my way. Beside the back door was a box full of cat supplies. A sizeable bag of dry kitten chow and a stack of wet food next to a fresh litter box and plastic container of litter. Apparently Frankie thought the cat was coming home with me? But no way. I had my limits.

I'd pop in a few times a day and check on him, sure, but I did not need another house mate. My landlord would have a heart attack, and I needed my security deposit back after I moved.

"Holy shit." I passed through the kitchen and stopped at the threshold of the dining room. My mouth dropped open, and I spun in a half circle to survey the damage.

What in the hell happened here?

It looked like a mob hit, except blood wasn't littering the white carpet of Frankie's dining room but dirt. In the corner, a tipped-over palm tree planter had spilled its contents over the carpet, and then it seemed someone had purposely shuffled the dirt even further out into the room. The criminals.

"Oh no," I said to myself, walking past the mess.

"Spencer?" I asked, more cautiously this time. Did I really want to find the cat?

I saw the mess in the living room before I even cleared the dining room, and I closed my eyes, waiting a beat before opening them again, hoping for it to be a bad dream.

But it wasn't.

The blinds covering the window behind the couch were tipped to the side and half of them broken like someone-or some cat-had tried to climb up them. "Does he have razor claws?"

In the living room, I tripped on something when I wasn't able to remove my gaze from the mess. A pillow with half its stuffing spilling out over the floor blocked my path, and I stepped over it once I regained my footing. The door to Frankie's home office was open, and I peeked inside, expecting to find more carnage, but the only thing out of place in the room was a big black and white tuxedo kitten sleeping on Frankie's wooden desk.

"Oh, you are a bad boy, Spencer." The cat lifted his head a fraction, yawned at me, and then returned to his sleep.

What the hell was I going to do? Frankie would kill whoever left his home like this.

Which meant he'd kill me.

I wasn't ready to die. No one wanted a funeral in Maine's winter. It would be too cold for people to properly mourn me. There wouldn't be a grave site burial.

No, I couldn't go down like this.

Not in February. Think of the flower bill for my funeral. It would drain my sister's college fund to ship in that many Hawaiian flowers out of season.

I turned on a heel and grabbed the pillow from the floor, shoving the stuffing in as far as possible and then returning it to the couch with the split hidden on the back side. Next, I hit the blinds, taking my time to bend them back into shape.

It took over an hour to get Frankie's house back in some sort of order. It scared me to search through his things for fear he'd see me on camera or have a henchman waiting in the closet, but I finally found the vacuum and saved most of his carpet. As long as they didn't look at the area where the plant fell too hard, I had a chance they'd never notice.

The entire time I'd been panic cleaning, Spencer kept up his nap on Frankie's desk. He didn't have a care in the world. At least until he played with the remnants of his destruction by trying to roll around in the dirt as I desperately piled it back into the pot. Sure, he looked like a cute little kitten who ate too much kibble, but he was a monster. A heartless monster.

I stared at him then as he returned from wherever he'd stayed hidden while I vacuumed. "I guess your parents are going to get their wish."

NB was going to hate me. I couldn't leave Spencer in Frankie's house to tear the place up every day while Frankie and Shiloh were on vacation. Eventually, I'd have a heart attack from the stress. If he was going to ruin something, I'd have to let him ruin my place.

The box with cat supplies weighed more than the stupid box Katy had me carry around for her last month, but I struggled with it enough to get it into the car and then returned for the cat.

"Let's go, heathen," I said, opening the cat carrier door and shoving Spencer inside. He turned and hissed at me, but I slammed the door shut and lugged him outside. "You and NB will have a great time."

Hopefully NB survived.

It'd be fine.

Probably.

I'd buy him a new toy to make it up to him. More treats. Something.

Spencer meowed in his carrier as I started the car. I really didn't have time for another issue, but I also couldn't let Frankie's cat die. Not if I wanted to live.

Mrs. Mets, my landlord with the enhanced hearing to rival Spiderman, wasn't watching the road from her front window. That meant bad things for me.

"Okay, I can do this." Spencer meowed. "We can do this."

I parked in the back lot and said a quick prayer that Mrs. Mets was taking a nap. Or a long bath.

If I had it my way, I'd take the supplies in first, but it wouldn't be responsible to leave Spencer in the cold during these conditions. It wasn't as cold as it had been last month, but his little kitten paws could still freeze.

I grabbed his carrier and shut the car door quietly so as not to alert Mrs. Mets if I could avoid it. Tiny, quiet steps took me toward the basement staircase, which led to my apartment. A door further down the hall opened, and a body stepped out.

"Shit," I whispered to myself and then shoved my arm forward to hide Spencer's cat carrier in the hallway.

"Vonnie, what are you holding?" Mrs. Mets asked, but she didn't move into the hallway.

She couldn't catch me with another forbidden pet. I was moving out, but that didn't mean I wanted her to kick me out immediately. We both knew she knew I had a dog in my "no pets" apartment, but neither of us were discussing it.

"Nothing, just some research for work. Did you like those cookies from Anessa?" I wasn't above reminding her of how exceptional her tenant was with bringing her free sweets.

She smiled. "I did. You should bring me more next time you work."

"I'll see what I can do." We were so close to home free. My heart almost beat out of my chest, as I moved toward the basement stairwell.

Spencer meowed, a loud screaming sound like something had just taken a bite out of him.

"What the hell was that?" Mrs. Mets asked, and her head whipped to the door.

"No idea. See you later," I said and took the first step into the basement.

"Vonnie Vines!" The door closed behind me and I raced down the steps with Spencer.