Chapter 25 Most Cats Are Lactose Intolerant
Most Cats Are Lactose Intolerant
Emily's Search History: Is it possible for psychopaths to like animals?
Eli
Things are back to normal.
Emily has forgiven me. She understands now. All she needed was for me to explain it to her.
I lock the door behind me, just in case she becomes erratic again.
By the time I get back down to my interrogation room, Tyler has Kevin’s body down from the hooks, ready to be burnt. He must have let himself in while I was upstairs.
We step out of the chamber, letting the reinforced steel door hiss shut behind us as it seals itself closed.
The remote in my hand feels heavy for some reason, but I ignore that as I lift it, selecting the button that will clean the room for me.
This is my favourite part.
After the interrogation is over, my room is usually—always—covered in blood, or guts, or some other bodily fluids. I don’t want to deal with that. There’s also the issue of getting rid of the body.
As my thumb presses in on the on button, the door hisses, the heatproof seals locking. Propane gas filters in from the burners along the walls.
The scanner on the right of the door is red, telling me not to go in.
If I could see inside, by this point blue flames would lick across the room, incinerating everything left inside. This room can heat up to one thousand degrees celsius.
The exhaust vent in the ceiling connects to ducting that runs up to my chimney flue. Inside, an industrial-grade carbon filter strips out odorous compounds, while a chemical scrubber neutralises any lingering scents before the air is released through the chimney into London’s already polluted air.
The room will stay sealed now for at least five hours, this includes the heat-up, cool-down, and odour extraction so that when I reopen the door, there will be no trace of what took place before.
Tyler leaves not long after, and the house falls silent, save for the faint hum of the ventilation system.
I climb the stairs and slowly open the door to find Emily passed out in the middle of our bed. Her face is smushed in the pillow, a slight frown marring her expression even in sleep. Why is she sad?
I strip off my clothes, then fold myself around her. It’s not as fun to cuddle when she’s in clothes, but I am respecting her wishes by not stripping her naked. As much as I hate it.
She sighs sleepily and adjusts herself, relaxing into my hold. See? Even comatose, she knows. She’s safe. Cared for. Loved.
When I wake in the morning, Emily is stiff, her shoulders tight with tension. I’m immediately alert, sitting up, scanning the room with my eyes.
“What is it, Angel? What’s wrong?” I ask, a little frantic at the thought of her being scared by something.
She looks at me with wide eyes, her mouth parted. But then she smiles softly. “Nothing, I’m fine. Just woke up from a bad dream.”
That explains the frown she was wearing last night.
I pull her into me, her thighs straddling my legs, and nuzzle her neck, inhaling her skin. “You’re okay.”
She hesitates for a moment before wrapping her arms around my shoulders.
“What would you like for breakfast?” I ask her, holding her tightly, reluctant to let go.
She shifts, pulling back. I let her. She swallows thickly before answering, looking up at me through her lashes while her head is tilted towards the sheets below. “Just cereal today, thank you.”
I shrug in acceptance, then stretch as I stand from the bed. Emily tries to sneakily watch the way my muscles strain with the movement. But she can’t hide her reaction to me.
Reaching the door, I hesitate. Do I let her out of the room? I locked her in last night. But she seems content again.
It’s not like she can get out of the house anyway.
I leave the door ajar on my way out.
She joins me fifteen minutes later, bare feet tentatively stepping into the room. She’s showered and dressed in joggers and a camisole that sculpts to her curves in a way that has my mouth watering. Those breasts are too beautiful to be covered.
I place cereal bowls on the table, and the two of us eat in relative silence.
Then Graham mews, cutting through the quiet scraping of spoons and slurps of milk.
Ah.
That’s what he wants.
Before I can attend to the little fur baby, Emily’s chair scrapes back and she scoops him into his arms, kissing his head.
I wish she were kissing me. I yearn for the feel of her lips pressed against mine. Will she one day let me do it again? It’s so hard to let her be in control. To be the one that decides when the time is right.
“Hi, baby,” she coos at Graham, her voice taking on that babyish tone that we all use when talking to animals. “How are you? What do you want?”
“He’s probably jealous we have milk and he doesn’t,” I answer—you know, since he can’t.
Her brows furrow. “You give him milk?”
I shrug. “He’s a cat.”
“Eli…” she starts, trailing off as if she’s not sure how to respond. “You know most cats are lactose intolerant?”
My jaw drops.
I’ve been poisoning my boy?
“No? What? Surely not?” I practically squeak.
Emily nods her head, stroking Graham lovingly. “Yeah, you really shouldn’t give him cow’s milk.”
“Will he be okay?” I gasp, shoving away from the table so I can run my hands over Graham's fluffy body as he curls further into Emily’s arms.
She tilts her head at me, assessing. “You really love him, don’t you?” she asks, a little disbelieving.
I’m quick to answer. “Of course I do. He’s your baby, that makes him my baby.”
She chokes. “My…. Your… Oh my God.”
“Emily, focus. Is he okay?” I snap.
She immediately straightens. “You just called me Emily. Not Angel.”
My head hit my hands, fingers tugging at strands of my hair.
Emily places her hand over mine, forcing my head up. “He’ll be fine. It’s not been long enough for it to do him any damage. Just don’t do it again.” She smiles at me. With genuine warmth. “Also, you can call me Em, if you want.”