My Stepfamily Moved In… Weeks Later, My Cat Was Dead

The first thing I noticed was that May did not come running.

For nine years, the sound of my key in the front door had been enough. No matter where she was, May would appear with that crooked little tail and the same impatient meow, as if I had been gone for months instead of eight hours.

That night, the house stayed silent.

"May?"

Rain hammered the windows. My shoes squeaked against the hallway floor as I walked toward my room. The door was half-open.

I pushed it wider.

May was lying in the middle of my bed.

At first, my brain gave me the kindest lie it could find. She's asleep.

"Hey, sleepy girl."

She did not move.

I crossed the room too fast, dropped my purse, and reached for her. The second my fingers touched her fur, the world tilted.

Cold.

"No."

I picked her up. Her body felt wrong in my arms, too loose and too quiet. I pressed my face against her head and started begging like a child.

"May, wake up. Come on. I'm home. I'm right here."

Nothing.

The bedroom door creaked behind me.

Vanessa stood there in a cream sweater, one hand resting on the frame. My father's new wife had lived in our house for only three months, but she already moved through it like everything belonged to her.

"Emma," she said softly. "I'm so sorry."

I looked up through tears. "What happened?"

Her eyes flicked toward the hallway.

"Caleb found her earlier."

Caleb. Her sixteen-year-old son.

I looked down at May again. Her faded red collar was twisted sideways. Near the buckle was a fresh, deep scrape, as if it had been dragged hard across something rough.

My grief went still for one second.

Then I saw something else caught beneath the collar.

A tiny splinter of bright blue paint.

There was only one place in our house painted that exact color.