Once Rachel had drifted off to sleep, Freckles uncurled. He stretched in that way cats do, and then padded across the foot of the bed, stepping carefully over Rachel’s ankles. Then he turned and followed the edge of the mattress up to the headboard. He was an old cat, and not keen on jumping. So from there he just stepped across the narrow gap to her nightstand.
There he sat, rested a minute, gathered himself, and focused. He stared with the kind of intensity that most house cats reserve for an unsuspecting piece of string. His concentration was rewarded with a faint click: The lock on Rachel’s diary snapped open, and the book flipped to its most recent entry.
Freckles read with more comprehension than most cats bother with for text. When he was done, the diary flipped shut and quietly relocked itself.
Well, fuck, Freckles muttered. Then he gathered himself again and, despite his age, jumped down to the floor.
Once there he shook out his aching limbs and padded out of the bedroom, down the hall, and into the living room to make a few calls.