Chapter 1: Sophie

The smell from the takeout containers is making my stomach sit up and take notice, so I'm rushing by the time I get home. I sprint up the stairs and into the lobby, grab my mail, and take just a moment to flip through it. I have to squint to read the return addresses. Half the lights in here must be burned out. Have to bug the super about that. Mail plus takeout containers plus my purse and briefcase means my hands are too full to hit the apartment buzzer. I consider hitting it with my nose, then decide an elbow is a safer bet.

"Who is it?" Jasmine's voice comes over the tinny intercom. She doesn't sound like she's been crying. Maybe she's getting over this whole Mikey thing.

"Just a couple of monkeys, Jazzy," I sing out. Having a passcode was my idea, but the choice of phrase was Jasmine's. My little sister has a weird sense of humor. We'd used "a swarm of rats" for a bit after the rat infestation, but apparently that wasn't traumatic enough for her, so it was back to the monkeys.

"I don't know if I can let monkeys into the apartment. Unless maybe the monkeys happened to bring home some sushi?" Jasmine asks.

"They might have," I allow, heading for the stairs.

Jasmine has the bolts and chain undone and the door cracked open before I reach it. I slip through the door, closing it behind me, to see that she is dressed in a ratty bathrobe, head uncovered. Dammit,Jasmine. I give her my best scowl. "Where's your hood?"

"Oh, sorry, Soph. I didn't think to put it on." Jasmine's ears and nose twitch.

"What's next, curling up in the windows next to Erwin?" Jasmine's tabby loves the windowsills, which is a little unfortunate, since my lease specifies "no pets." "What if one of the neighbors was coming up the stairs and caught a glimpse of you?" My voice is getting louder and louder. "Are you actively trying to get caught?"

"Sophie." She reaches for me with her right hand, then reconsiders and puts her left hand on my arm. "I appreciate that you're trying to keep me safe. But your neighbors are not going to peer in through a one-inch crack in the door and run down the hallways yelling, 'Kitty ears! Kitty ears!'"

I take a deep breath and slowly let it out, like Coach taught me to do when I got too fired up. "Fair enough, sis." I set the takeout containers down on the battered table, then turn to give her a hug. "Sorry I snapped at you there. Kind of a rough day at work."

"We're good," she tells me with a smile that exposes a wicked pair of incisors. I expect her to pounce on the sushi, but instead she turns and heads for the bedroom.

"Hey, wait! Aren't you hungry?"

"Just a moment," she calls back. "I was chatting with Mikey and I should let him know I won't be on for a bit."

"Chatting with Mikey?" I follow her as far as the bedroom door, failing to control a wince when I look inside. My room – now Jasmine's – looks like a Superfund cleanup site, with dirty dishes piled in the corners and a carpet of fur coating everything. Aren't cats supposed to be tidy? "I thought you broke that poor boy's heart. Did he really come back for another helping?"

"I told him I was sorry, but that my big sister wouldn't let me come meet him. He said he totally understood how that was, and that he forgave me. Isn't that sweet?"

It's probably good that Jasmine is looking at the screen and not my face. So I get to be the bad guy here. Admittedly, I had told her in no uncertain terms that she couldn't meet the boy. Mikey really did seem like a sweet guy, if not the brightest, but there was no way he wouldn't freak at the first sight of Jasmine's bewhiskered, fur-covered face. I open my mouth to remind her of this, then remember last week's conversation. I suggested that Mikey didn't seem to be on her mental level, she brought up Steve the lawyer, I noted that in this apartment he is "that asshole Steve," and the conversation went in unhelpful directions. Hey, I never said I was the perfect role model.

Jasmine is typing away at the keyboard, using only her left hand. She says it's too hard to type with her right hand, the motion tends to extend her claws and they get in the way. I find myself staring at her once again. I always tell myself that I'm just trying to get used to the way she looks now – she's caught me flinching when she does something catlike, like licking her arm or absent-mindedly sharpening her claws on the furniture, and I can see the way she flinches in turn. But I have to admit there's a mix of horror and fascination and guilt in there too.

Budding scientist that she is, she's done a lot of speculation on what happened. She thinks the change started in her right hand where she touched the goo (her name, not mine), then spread up her arm and along her spinal column. (She doesn't talk much about this part, but I also get the impression that it hurt like hell.) Her right arm is pretty much all cat – thinner than it was and covered in thick fur, black on the top, white on the bottom. Her left arm looks pretty much unchanged – there's more hair, but her light coffee-colored skin is still visible, a few shades lighter than mine. (I guess she got more of Dad's white genes along with his science-nerd genes. I favor Mom on both counts.)

And then there's the tail. I admit, I still have a really hard time coping with the tail, especially its tendency to twitch. At least Jazz has better control of it now. Replacing all the broken glasses was getting old.

Jasmine finishes typing and turns away from the keyboard with a smile. "He says that he and his brothers are going out to fight alien robots anyway. Mikey cracks me up!" The computer beeps, and she glances back at the screen. I can hear that she's frowning now when she says, "Oh, another message from Kraig. Look, dude, I'm not going to message you back, go away."

"Who's this?" I ask warily. One of my perennial worries is that one of Jasmine's Internet contacts will start stalking her, but it's the only social contact she has and I can't... won't... take that away.

"He's some creeper who's spent the day sending me messages. He has the weirdest syntax. He's probably not a native English speaker, so I know I shouldn't make fun, but he is giving me the creeps so maybe it's fair. Listen to this: 'The one known as Jasmine should engage in the activity known as dating with Kraig. The one known as Jasmine shall be having what is known as a good time.'"

I shudder as dramatically as I can. "Always avoid guys who tell you what kind of time you should be having. I do really wish you hadn't used your real name on that site, Jazz."

Jasmine shrugs. "It's not as if I'm the only Jasmine in the boroughs. I'm careful, I don't tell anyone my last name or where I live. Plus, Mikey says he clicked on me at first because I have a pretty name." She rose and stretched, arching her back. "Time for sushi?"

"I thought you'd never ask," I said as the phone rang. "Crap. Go ahead and get started without me, OK?" I pick up the receiver. "Hello?"

The voice on the other end is male and crisp. "Hello. May I speak to Ms. Sophie Walker?"

"Speaking," I say, trying to place the voice. It doesn't sound like anyone from the parade of exes, and I haven't given a guy my number since Jasmine moved in two months ago.

"This is Agent Bishop with the Federal Bureau of Investigation," he says. "I am hoping to interview you and your sister about your father's disappearance."

Now he's got one hundred percent of my attention. I glance at Jasmine, who is tearing into the raw fish but definitely listening to my end of the conversation, and duck into her room, making an effort not to trip over a pile of laundry. Mental note: I need to run to the laundromat sometime soon. It's not as if I can send Jasmine.

"Yes? Do you have a lead on Dad?" I call the police twice a week, but they don't seem to be getting anywhere. But what does the frigging FBI have to do with this?

"Possibly. I'm not sure yet. It would be very helpful for my investigation if I could talk to you and your sister."

If he asks her questions about Dad's research, or her whereabouts the days after he disappeared... I don't like where that could lead. "My sister and I gave lengthy statements to the police. I'd like to help, but I really don't think there's anything else I could tell you."

There is a pause, then he continues smoothly. "I'm working on a case that may be connected to your father's disappearance. The New York City police may not... be able to see the full picture here. If you and your sister come in and talk with me, it could be very helpful in recovering your father."

Oh hell no. "You can't just talk to us over the phone?" I want to smack my forehead. Way to convince him you have nothing to hide, Sophie.

"There are some... documents and images I would like to share with you. They are confidential, so I can't transmit them to you. I would be happy to meet with the two of you at a time that's convenient for you."

He's smooth and I have an increasingly bad feeling about this. "I really can't put my sister through that. All of this has been really difficult and traumatic for her. But I could come in and talk to you..."

"I'm afraid that would not be as helpful. As I understand it, you have been at odds with your father for years. You even changed your last name. In contrast, Jasmine was living at home and had daily contact with your father. She is more likely to recognize a face or a name."

He might as well have punched me in the gut. How much does this man know about us? "Jasmine's well-being is my first priority. She's been through enough trauma at this point. I'm afraid that my answer is no."

"I hope you reconsider, Ms. Walker. Your father's life isn't the only one hanging in the balance here."

Was that a threat? "Goodbye," I tell him, and press the OFF button on the phone. I realize that my hand is shaking and sweat is pooling in my armpits. I take a few deep breaths to calm myself. Thanks, Coach. Once I feel more composed, I head back out to the outer room and put the phone back in its cradle.

The table is a scene of carnage. The sashimi never knew what hit it. Jasmine raises her head, licks her lips, and asks, "What was that about?"

"Nothing important," I lie, sitting down and rooting through the carnage for my maki. "Some decisions about your trust fund I needed to approve." Dad may have been an unsupportive jerk who disapproved of every single choice I made in my entire life, but he did make sure that I would be able to take care of Jasmine if anything happened to him, and I love him a little bit for that.

Jasmine cocks her head to one side and gives me a long look. "Don't take up playing poker, Sophie."

"Whaaa?" I respond articulately.

"You have the worst poker face in the universe. Plus I can see your hand is still shaking a little. Plus I could hear your entire end of the conversation – these are pretty sensitive," she says, pointing at her ears.

"OK, OK. Some guy who said he was with the FBI and wants to talk with you about Dad. But he was really insistent about talking to you in person, and he gave me a really bad feeling."

"A guy who gives you a bad feeling right away? He must really be the worst," Jasmine said, unable to suppress a toothy smirk.

"Well, I wasn't planning to date him," I say, relaxing a little. Jasmine has always been good at distracting me when I'm upset about something. "It does make me worry, though. Ever since that reporter – Kurtzman? – stopped nosing around, the only calls I've gotten about you have been pretty routine. The trust fund, school, and such."

"I finished two more MOOCs today," Jasmine noted. "I don't know why anyone bothers sitting in classrooms anymore."

I attempt to visualize my clients attempting to navigate a Massive Open Online Course, but decide I don't want to be diverted into this argument again. "So how did the time spent on MOOCs compare with the time spent napping?"

Jasmine uses her clawed hand to bat Erwin away from her sushi. "Hey, MOOCs are all about getting rid of obsolete ideas like 'seat time.' Fossils like you need to embrace the future."

"One more crack like that and I'll show you who's a fossil," I say, poking Jasmine in the ribs. She pokes back, and that pretty much puts an end to any semblance of serious conversation.

After dinner, Jasmine goes back to the computer and I lie on the couch, half-reading the paper and half-watching a volleyball game. I'm still a little worried about Bishop. Tomorrow I'll look at apartment listings. Just in case. Penn State is up 2 sets to 1 when I click off the television, turn off the light, and pull a blanket over me. The light's out in Jasmine's room, but I'm sure she'll be at the computer for several hours yet.

I drift off into uneasy dreams in which FBI Agent Bishop has me cornered in an alley. When he walks up to me, he turns out to be that asshole Steve. Bishop/Steve tries to use his rational-argument skills to talk me into handing over Jasmine. For some reason, dream me does not respond by punching him in the face.

#

I groan when the alarm goes off, then smack it into silence before it can wake Jasmine. I can hear her half-snoring, half-purring as I drag myself to the coffeemaker, pull a clean shirt and pair of slacks out of the dresser wedged in the corner next to the table, and try to make myself presentable for work. When I glance in at Jasmine, she is curled up on the bed against a mound of piled-up blankets, with her chin tucked against her chest. I hate to disturb her, but the deadbolt isn't going to lock itself, so I put a gentle hand on her shoulder. Instantly, she is awake, eyes wide open and staring.

"Soph! What's wrong?"

I rub her shoulder reassuringly. It's not as strange as it was to feel the smooth, soft fur. "It's just time for me to leave. Can you get the door?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah, sorry. I think I was having a bad dream."

"Anything you want to talk about?" I ask.

"No, just a dream." I've heard her cry out in her sleep sometimes, but she's never been willing to talk about it. Then again, I'm not about to share the Agent Steve dream with her, either. She stumbles the few feet to the apartment door, and I give her a quick hug.

"Now remember, let the answering machine pick up if the phone rings, and don't answer the buzzer unless I've called to tell you I'm on my way. OK?" I know I've given this warning fifty times already and there's no need to repeat it, but I can't help myself. She just nods and gives me a quick squeeze. I close the door and head down the stairs to catch the train.

I work as a case manager assistant in an elder care office, setting up and conducting interviews with new clients, making follow-up phone calls, and doing paperwork. Lots and lots of paperwork. It's not quite what I'd envisioned when I was getting my Social Work degree, but I've been doing it for three years now, and on good days I feel like I'm helping make a difference for someone. On bad days I wonder if Dad was right and my A.S. wasn't worth the paper it's printed on. He didn't even come to my graduation.

The office is hectic today, and I don't have a chance to call home until my lunch break. The answering machine picks up after four rings. I know it's my voice on the thing, but it always sounds strange. "Hello, you've reached Sophie Walker..."

I interrupt the message. "Hi, me, it's me. Jasmine around anywhere?"

"Hi, Sophie," Jasmine's voice comes over the phone.

"How are you doing?"

"All right," Jasmine answers. "Mikey's having a rough day. He lost a good friend, and he says he's not sure he'll ever see him again."

That sets off alarm bells. Carl told me a very similar story when he was trying to get me into bed. Where by "story" I mean "pack of bald-faced lies," by "trying" I mean "succeeding," and by "Carl" I mean "that asshole Carl."

"He's not trying to get you to do anything, is he? Or trying again to get you to meet him?"

"Sophie," Jasmine says reproachfully. "Mikey's not Carl." OK, when the hell did I tell my baby sister that story? Why the hell did I tell my baby sister that story? I strongly suspect that alcohol was involved. Jasmine continues, "I sent him a bunch of kitten GIFs until he told me to stop because he was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe."

God dammit, my little sister is better at relationships than I am. I'm almost starting to root for these two. But it's never going to happen. And whose fault is that? The familiar litany of thoughts starts up in my head. I should have known she would go check out the lab. I should have stopped her. Or gone with her. Or done anything except tell her, "The police will deal with it," and go to work. Which is what I did.

"Uh, Soph, you still there?" Jasmine asks.

She's got enough to deal with without shouldering my guilt issues as well. "Sorry, Jazz. Just thinking about too many things at once." Fortunately, my total lack of a poker face is less of an issue on the phone.

"Oh – one thing I should let you know about, but don't freak out. This girl was knocking at the apartment door this morning," Jasmine said.

"WHAT?" My boss Norma gives me a reproachful look from across the room.

"Calm down! It's not a big deal. I heard the buzzer go a few times but I didn't answer. Then I heard knocking, so I took a look through the peephole. Someone else must have let her in. She had a bunch of brochures for some school fundraising drive, selling cakes or something. I didn't answer and she went away after a bit."

"What did she look like?" I ask. It seems unlikely that she is FBI Agent Bishop, but I still feel rattled.

"Skinny white girl, red hair, my age or maybe a little younger?"

She would have stuck out like a sore thumb in my apartment building. "Do you want me to come home?" I ask.

"No, sis, you do not have to come protect me from the skinny white girl. Erwin might be able to knock her over in a pinch." Jasmine laughs, and the laugh sounds genuine.

Nonetheless, I am nervous, and after a few moments of thought I pick up the phone and call Nikki. She picks up on the fourth ring. "Hey, Nikki, it's Sophie."

"Sophie? Do I know a Sophie? I think I used to play basketball with a Sophie, once upon a time..."

"You're a laugh and a half, Nikki, I was there last week. But Jasmine's not doing well and I want to head home after work. Think the team can manage without me?"

Nikki sighed. "Who's going to commit stupid fouls without you there?"

"OK, I'll give you two laughs, but no more. See you next week." I hang up the phone a little more forcefully than I mean to. I haven't fouled out in months. Weeks, at least.

I spend most of the afternoon on the phone. A lot of our clients are calling in with respiratory problems, and I do my best to help them out. When the phone rings around 4 pm, it takes me a moment of staring at the caller ID before I realize that's my number. I grab the phone and almost drop it getting it to my ear. Jasmine never calls me at work. "Jasmine? Is everything OK?"

She sounds shaken. "Yeah, I'm fine, just a little weirded out. Kraig is messaging me again and the messages are getting creepier."

I start throttling the phone. "What do they say?"

Jasmine reads shakily, "'The one known as Jasmine will be looking forward to meeting with the one that is Kraig. The location that is Jasmine's location and the location that is Kraig's location will be the same location at a time which is very soon.'"

I unleash a torrent of invective in the direction of the phone, then realize where I am and look around the office nervously. Norma's not looking daggers at me, at least. "Jasmine, block him right away."

"That's the other weird thing. I thought I already did, and when I bring up the options he's marked as blocked, but I keep getting these messages anyway." She sounds more perplexed than alarmed.

My heart is hammering an alarm but I reach for a calm voice. "I'm coming right home, Jasmine. Make sure all the blinds are closed and whatever you do, do not unlock the door until you can see me through the peephole. It's going to be OK, sis." I don't think I'm sounding very convincing.

I stammer something at Norma, no idea what, and tear out of the office. I hope like hell that this Kraig guy is only trying to get a rise out of her. How can he know where she lives? But I want to make absolutely certain that he's going to have to go through me before he can get to my baby sister. And if he tries, he's going to find out just how hard a foul I can deliver.