It was mid-September when Lily first mentioned the cat.
“The Bennetts asked me to feed their cat while they’re out of town,” she said, swinging her backpack off as she walked into the kitchen.
“Oh,” I replied, distracted by dinner. “That was nice of them. Did they give you a key?”
She hesitated. “No, it’s just outside. I leave the food on their porch.”
That didn’t strike me as strange at first. Mr. Whiskers, their plump orange tabby, was always lounging in their window anyway. I figured maybe they let him roam while they were away.
So every evening, around 5:30, Lily would scoop a bit of kibble into a Tupperware and walk it next door. She’d be gone maybe ten minutes.
No big deal.
But then she started staying longer.
And the food she took started changing.
She asked for leftover chicken. Tuna. A few slices of ham. Once, she asked for raw eggs.
“They really spoil their cat,” I joked.
She just shrugged. “He doesn’t like the kibble anymore.”
That’s when I started to worry.
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