The Wrong Side


by Patricia Feinberg Stoner

Her little face was pressed against the glass pane. Her ears lay flat against her skull and moisture dripped from her whiskers. The conservatory door was open – how could she not tell she was on the wrong side of it? Grabbing a towel from the airing cupboard I walked out onto the rain-darkened boards of the terrace. I scooped her up and hugged her till the shivering stopped. ‘Silly cat,’ I said.

 

An invitation to a murder

 

 


 

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