Mayden: What Claims by Fire

Chapter 1

Today, the old lady is going to talk. I just know it. I woke up knowing it. Okay, it could be desperation, given how Scottie is as weak as I've seen her. Just thinking of her sweet, little tabby legs all wobbly as she crawled up to sleep close to me last night—without a single purr—is killing me. But I don't think that's it. There's a difference between hoping for something and somehow just knowing it. This is definitely in the somehow just knowing category. 

Anyone sane would say I'm attempting the impossible. Mrs. Ana Quinn, talking? After more than a year of barely coherent babble? It's crazy, I know. But I don't care. It's a chance and I'm taking it. So, yes, today is the day Ana will give me enough information to find... well, whatever it is she has been trying to tell me I have to find if I want to save Scottie.

If...? Want...? 

No... must. 

Scottie has been my best friend, my only sister, my only brother, my mother (so many nights,my mother) and all four of my long-gone grandparents rolled into one. You just can't let that dieof unknown causes.

I'm nervous as I reach for the buzzer at the main doors. I shouldn't be. After all, I've spent the majority of my life in old folks' homes. The internationally recognized Sun Heritage Village was probably my first babysitter. Exactly when it was that I started babysitting the elderly residents, instead of the other way around, is hard to say. It was a gradual thing that nobody seemed to notice. 

I wait to announce myself, looking forward to the cool blast of air that will rush at me when the door opens. It's not that they don't know me here. But the rules are the rules. It doesn't matter who you are. Even Dad has to ring the buzzer and remind the person behind the desk that he's the guy who owns the place. He doesn't have to mention that, on last count, he owned forty-five such places across the US, with another few in Mexico and Europe. Everyone who works here learns that on training day. 

I look up into the security camera, seeing the red dot blink at me like an accusation. Maybe even a warning. No one knows what I'm up to today. No one could know. Even so, you get paranoid when you are about to bend some pretty important rules. 

What's taking them so long?

I know the two women at the front desk are just sitting there, watching me, enjoying their minuscule moment of power. I could stare back, as I often do. But not today. I'll just use my mind to bore an imaginary hole into their brains, keeping my head down and my lying eyes hidden. 

While policy states that there must always be two at the desk, it really doesn't matter which two. The same type always applies for the job: Middle-aged women, average intelligence, easily distracted by gossip. The desk is a relatively simple job with decent pay and great benefits. Even so, turnover is high because, you have to admit, the place is pretty depressing, especially overtime. 

I can just imagine the conversation going on at the desk as they watch me wait. It's the big boss's daughter again. Third time this week, I imagine the first one saying. 

Indeed, the other will reply. With the kind of money her dad has, why does she always dress in torn jeans and that old army jacket—in summer no less? And her hair! 

That style is all the rage, the first will say with a barely audible tsk-tsk. Outrageous, but not cheap. You know how much you have to pay to look like that? Good luck getting ahead in life with that kind of attitude, no matter who your daddy is. She'll be shaking her head as if what a person wears is the totality of who a person is.

I can't stand imagining it any longer. I throw a big, fake smile into the camera. Not so big my teeth show—they don't deserve a real smile—but a lot bigger than normal. I mentally drill the idea into their skulls: Just let me in.