Preston said as Cat pulled up to a beat-up, peeled-paint shack of a house on the outskirts of town. He should have hired a driver and gone himself to rescue the abandoned feline. When they were in her car together after school something had possessed him to tell her, and once the cat was out of the bag, so to speak, she’d turned it into a crusade and insisted on driving them here immediately. He’d run in, scoop up Dirty Harry, and spend the rest of the night watching a ball game, working out, and enjoying a beer on his patio in front of the lake. And not thinking of her. Cat shot him a worried glance from the driver’s seat. “Preston, the house looks worse than ever. Maybe you shouldn’t—” “That’s because nobody’s home. Keep the car running, and if anyone from this neighborhood pulls a gun, tries to sell you a bag of weed, or flashes you, drive off and go home.” “I have a better idea,”
