He would scratch.
Meow.
Walk away.
Return.
Eventually Corrine always gave in.
Every morning, Basil was inside the passenger seat.
She began joking about it.
Iris called Friday evening.
“How’s Cloud Cat?”
“Living a double life.”
“What now?”
“He sleeps in my car.”
“Why?”
“No idea.”
“Maybe he was a mechanic in a previous life.”
“He has terrible qualifications.”
“Maybe he checks your oil.”
Corrine laughed.
Then:
“He gets inside somehow.”
“What do you mean somehow?”
“I lock it.”
“And?”
“He’s inside in the morning.”
Iris paused.
“You sure you lock it?”
Corrine rolled her eyes.
“Yes.”
Then:
“I think.”
Iris’s voice softened.
“Have you told Lena about the memory stuff?”
“She knows.”
“And your doctor?”
“It's grief.”
“You don't know that.”
Corrine changed the subject.
The first thing she could not dismiss happened Monday.
She opened the garage and stopped.
The Subaru was crooked.
Not dramatically.
The front left tire sat maybe four inches closer to the wall than usual.
Corrine stared.
She always parked centered.
Always.
The garage was narrow.
If she parked too far left, the driver door became difficult to open.
She walked around the car.
Nothing damaged.
No scrape.
She opened the driver door.
Sat.
The seat felt wrong.
Too far back.
Corrine reached for the adjustment.
Stopped.
She was five feet four.
Her normal seat position put her closer to the steering wheel.
Now her legs stretched farther than usual.
She pulled the seat forward.
Then looked at the mirror.
Slightly low.
Her stomach tightened.
“Basil?”
He sat near the garage door.
Watching.
Corrine went inside.
Opened her phone.
Called Iris.
“I think somebody was in my car.”
“What?”
“I’m serious.”
She explained.
Iris did not laugh.
“Any sign someone entered the house?”
“No.”
“Garage?”
“No.”
“Keys?”
“With me.”
“Spare?”
Corrine froze.
The Subaru had two fobs.
One in her purse.
One in a kitchen drawer.
She checked.
Both there.
Iris asked:
“Anyone else ever have copies?”
“Luke.”
“Does he still?”
“No.”
“He gave everything back.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Her answer was automatic.
Then less certain.
“I think.”
Iris said:
“Call him.”
Corrine did.
Luke answered after two rings.
“Hey.”
The sound of his voice caused a strange ache.
“Did you keep a car key?”
“What?”
“To the Subaru.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Someone moved my car.”
Silence.
“Corrine, are you okay?”
She hated that question.
“Yes.”
“I'm asking because…”
“I know why you're asking.”
Luke’s voice became careful.
“I gave you both fobs when I moved out.”
“I remember.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to…”
“No.”
She softened.
“Sorry.”
“Okay.”