We Find What Is Lost: A Novel of the Terribly Acronymed Detective Club (Book 1)

Chapter Thirty-Two: Al, Sunday

Al woke up with the horrifying realization that he couldn't feel his left arm. The attempt to pull at it with his body revealed something was on it, which probably explained why he couldn't feel it. He had to get the blood flowing back to it, though, so he had to move whatever was--

His eyes cracked open, and the memory of last night came flooding back when he saw Rachel spooned into him. They were both fully clothed, but she lay with her head on his left arm, and his right arm was still draped over her waist. He flushed with embarrassment when he remembered his reaction to her grabbing that arm and putting it over her. What was he, a teenager? She'd needed comfort, and he'd let biology get in the way.

He must have dropped off quickly, and then not gotten up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. When was the last time that had happened?

He lifted his head and peered around. Samson wasn't on the bed anymore. Probably waiting for breakfast. He needed to get up, go to the bathroom and feed the cat, in that order.

As gently as he could, he slid the numb arm out from under her head. She didn't even stir. He wondered how well she slept lately, with everything that had happened to her. If he could feel good about anything, it was that he'd helped her have a good night's sleep.

He walked to the bathroom, shaking out his arm, those first pins and needles excruciating, but finally easing as he relieved himself, glad he'd remembered to close and lock the door, something he never did when here on his own. He brushed his teeth and then looked for the cat.

The clock on the oven said it was eight in the morning. He was astounded. Samson never let him sleep in this late, even on the weekend. He wondered if the cat had tried to wake him and just gave up. What if Al had batted him away in his sleep? Poor boy.

He found him snoozing on the couch and wondered if it wasn't the cat who'd trained him to get up early, but he himself in anticipation of needs that weren't that urgent. Samson wasn't waiting by his food bowl yowling his head off, after all.

He filled his water bowl with fresh water, filled clean bowls with hard and soft food, and put the dirty bowls from yesterday in the sink to wash. Then he scooped the litter. Then he realized he'd forgotten to set the coffee maker last night with Rachel here, so he quickly got a pot going.

His phone rang. He picked it up without looking and answered so the sound wouldn't wake her. "Hello?"

"Al, it's your mother."

"Oh, hi Mom."

"Don't sound so pleased to see me."

"Sorry, just woke up."

"Just now? Didn't your cat wake you up?"

"Apparently not. I'm the only one up."

"I see. I called because I haven't heard from you in two weeks. I thought I'd check to see if you were still alive."

"Sorry, Mom." He felt genuinely ashamed. Hadn't he resolved to call and visit more often? "A couple of things happened in that time that occupied me."

"Oh, really? So much so that you couldn't take a few minutes out of your day? A lunch break at work?"

He sighed inwardly, remembering why he didn't call or visit more often. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"Why don't you come by for lunch and you can tell me what happened to you."

"Uh... well, I can't. Not today."

"Why not?"

"I... have company, as a matter of fact."