The last thing she remembered seeing was a coffee-ring stain on the page of her yellow-checkered notebook, where she had scribbed names and dates down. Deceased and the day they died. She didn't remember drinking coffee, she was purely tea. Someone had broken through her familiar, someone had gotten past the defenses she secured and put up.

Things weren't safe anymore. She had to find the perpetrator.

The Cheshire Cat;

hasn't written anything in ages.
is perhaps waiting to be skewered for not finishing stories.
loves coffee, contrary to popular belief.
the rain is pelting hard outside her window and she's figuring a way to fall asleep.