She’s at my side, squatting by the strange altar, a moment later. The tabby’s rust-colored fur is threadbare, and its tiny rib cage pokes through the mangy coat. The circle of candles allows for a few inches of space around the cat’s prostrate body. There are no other objects within their borders, but there is a smear of red at the base of the oak’s trunk. It’s bright and wet. “Blood,” Zoey breathes, staring at the same charnel graffiti. “The cat’s?” “Probably,” I whisper. A jagged tear rings the cat’s neck like a bloody necklace. I gently nudge the head and it rolls, unattached from the body, pupils focused on me as it tumbles. It rocks to a stop, the creature’s little pink spongy tongue sticking out. “Ewww!” Zoey screams, throwing herself backward, landing on her butt in the mud. She scurries to her feet and ducks behind Sam; one watering eye peeks out from behind his shoulder. “Stella, come on. Let’s go back to the car and call the cops.” Sam speaks steady and slow.
