"Spencer!" I yelled, my anxiety over the missing cat causing me to forget about Mrs. Mets one floor above me.

Where had the damn cat gone? And what smelled?

If he wasn't on top of the fridge, he had to be hiding somewhere. But with everything moved out of the apartment, there weren't many spots for him to stay for long. I opened the cupboard under the sink and stuck my head in.

No cat.

Next came the cupboard behind it. A waft of dirty gym socks came with the closing door.

Nothing.

The last two were also empty although I found a half-eaten jelly bean at the back of the first one. It must have been the licorice flavor I'd tossed out after almost dying from the disgusting taste. I wasn't brave enough to touch it and confirm.

"Damn it, Spencer." Why did this cat do this to me? And why did my kitchen stink?

Was he really a demon from hell like Broadrick said?

I tried the top cabinets just in case. He was an asshole cat, so who knew where he'd fit himself? I released each cabinet door, and it slammed shut after discovering the contents were empty.

Great. I had a missing-probably dead-cat and a kitchen that reeked of...something.

Shit.

No.

I jumped away from the counter.

Was it a dead cat aroma? I'd just seen Spencer that morning.

My stomach rolled, and I allowed my nose to lead me to the nasty culprit. It didn't take long. The smell creator waited for me on the other side of my kitchen island.

A tall bag of trash that someone dumped the contents of my fridge into, but then didn't take to the trash on their way out.

I breathed a sigh of relief, and my shoulders sagged.

With my nose closed, I tied off the top and left the bag in the container. Not a smelly dead cat, but that would be the exact fragrance of my body after Frankie killed me if I didn't find his dumb cat.

The tuxedo kitten wasn't in the kitchen, so I did a quick scan of the living room and bedrooms. Nothing. I'd just worked myself back into the start of a tizzy when a meow from the small bathroom caught me off guard.

"Spencer?" I asked cautiously and peeked my head into the space.

He lifted his head from where he'd been napping in my bathroom sink and gave me another meow. It sounded helpless and demanding at the same time.

"Oh, my word. Have you been here the whole time?" I asked.

He didn't answer, but he stood and let me pick him up.

"Come on, buddy. We're getting you out of here." I needed to keep my eye on him at all times. Possibly get him a tracking device, alarm system, and camera setup.

The empty apartment was no longer safe, and before he figured out my plans, I shoved Spencer into his cat carrier and set it on top of the covered litter box. The food dishes went into the carrier next after I dumped the water in the sink.

"We'll get you dinner when we make it to my place."

"Meow," he said, sounding more demanding than lonely that time.

"Let's go," I said and then picked up the litter box and carrier at the same time. The apartment wasn't safe. What if someone broke in and stole Spencer? Or what if a tornado came and ripped off the top two layers of the house and then sucked Spencer into the funnel and deposited him in Vermont?

Could a cat even survive being in a tornado suck zone?

Was it even called a suck zone? If it wasn't, science really missed out on a great opportunity.

Regardless, he couldn't stay there alone anymore.

Plus, the place stank.

Spencer was a mobster's cat. Frankie wasn't the Godfather, but he was the Catfather, and he wouldn't want his child living in these conditions.

My hands were full of litter box and cat carrier so I didn't have room for the trash. I'd have to come back to take it out and air out the place later. Or find some way to get Broadrick over here and have him do it.

I tucked Spencer in the front seat of Rachel and his litter box in the trunk and left the parking lot as the back door to the apartment opened and Mrs. Mets stepped out.

"Close call," I said to Spencer.

He meowed.

"Listen, I just need to get a few things off my to-do list and then it will be fine. Things like you. When is your father coming home?" I asked at the street corner.

"Meoooow." He sounded long and suffering. Like the fact I'd put him in the carrier meant he'd probably die.

"Great. Sounds great." Just great.

It was going to be fine. Everything was fine.

I circled the block in front of my place once to make sure Broadrick wasn't hiding somewhere in the bushes. His motorcycle was missing from the driveway, and he hadn't parked it down the block to sneak up on me.

Spencer gave me another pained meow. I didn't know how a cat sounded pained, but he did. You could tell from the cadence. I parked and then eased him from the passenger seat and kicked open the door to my new place.

It was always important to make an entrance. Just in case someone was lying in wait.

I left Spencer in his carrier and returned for his litter box, tucking it between two stacks of boxes in the living room. NB had heard our commotion and stuck his nose right against the mesh opening to the carrier, giving Spencer a sniff.

"We're going to get along, yes?"

Spencer hissed and batted at the mesh.

"Okay, great."

NB backed up quickly.

"Good, so you two are getting along again. Splendid."

NB growled at me and walked away.

"Don't judge me," I yelled after him. "You don't know the life I've lived."

The black and white monster had his back arched up in his carrier as I carefully unzipped the front latch. As soon as the opening was big enough, he lunged toward me. I fell to my ass and Spencer did a full jog around the living room. He leaped to the counter in the kitchen and then scaled the fridge like he was Spiderman in training.

I'd been ready to coax him down to hide him somewhere more appropriate, like under the couch or bathroom sink, when the noise from a motorcycle stopped me in my tracks. By the time Broadrick walked through the front door, I was perched on the couch, playing a game on my phone and looking innocent and pure.

"I'm not even going to ask," he said as he closed the door behind him while carrying a large white takeout bag.

Probably for the best. He'd find out soon enough. "Didn't we already eat dinner? At like four o'clock?"

Broadrick waved the bag. "Yeah, this is a snack because no one normal eats at four and calls it dinner."

I didn't laugh because he wasn't wrong. My aunt and uncle were not normal. "You're a growing boy. I get it."

He scowled and opened the bag, pulling the contents out and setting them on the coffee table.

"Did you see Trish at the diner when you picked this up?" I didn't even bother asking how he got it home on his motorcycle.

Broadrick left a white container on the table's edge. "She gave me the order."

"Did she seem... suspicious to you?"