Chapter 7
Freshly unemployed, Evan pulled his beige Toyota Camry into the shared driveway in front of his town house.
He didn’t bother to apply at the neighboring furniture stores—they would still be there the next day or the day after.
He left the car running as he stepped out and opened the iron gates in front of his carport, then he pulled in.
The Spanish-style townhome complex, built in the late seventies, sat on a nice enough golf course with nice enough amenities—not that those were factors in Evan living there.
He could, however, do without the golf balls that occasionally bounced off his bedroom windows.
The town house used to be a rental property belonging to Evan’s grandpa, and Evan had lived there since he was in his mid-twenties.
When his grandpa passed away, the property went to Evan’s mother.
And when she passed away, it became Evan’s.
He closed the iron gates behind his Camry then walked into his house.
Trash Cat, the mostly feral Maine Coone that Evan cohabited with, didn’t bother to greet him at the door, which was fine, as Evan’s ankles had just about healed from the last time Trash Cat greeted him.
The cat had earned his name from the spot where Evan had found him—by the community garbage cans.
Yet there had never been a name more perfect for an animal.
The cat was found among the trash, eating trash, looked and sounded like trash, and had a trash attitude.
Evan tossed his car keys onto the kitchen counter, walked to the living room, and flipped on the television.
Since he’d left work, the only thing on Evan’s mind was whether police had found the dead man, and he was eager to see if there was any news coverage, though the radio hadn’t mentioned a thing about the murder on his drive home.
Evan scrolled through the channel guide and clicked on one of the local news channels, where a meteorologist was giving the ten-day forecast. He tried another station and caught some hockey highlights from an old game.
The third channel was reporting on the supermarket shooting that he’d heard about that morning and again during his drive home after being fired.
“What the hell,” Evan said. “They had to have found the guy by now.”
He flipped to the last local news outlet but found only some commercials. A sickly sounding meow came from the other room. Evan glanced toward the hall to see Trash Cat bounding into the living room.
“How was your day?” Evan asked.
The cat didn’t offer a response.
“I got fired,” Evan said.
Trash Cat didn’t seem to care. He trotted across the living room to his bowl in the kitchen and let out another ugly meow. At least Evan thought it was a meow, but it might have been a gag, as they often sounded similar. Apparently, Trash Cat was hungry.
Evan got up, went to the kitchen, and looked in the cat’s dish.
“You’ve got food in here,” he said.
The cat, weaving around Evan’s feet, put its face in the dish, his nose in the air, and simply walked away. Evan went back to the couch as the cat went down the hall.
“Stupid cat,” Evan said.
He grabbed the remote and cruised through the local channels again but still found nothing. Evan rubbed his chin, thinking that maybe hopping on his bike and cruising past the storage facility for a look could provide him some answers.