Roz scooped potting soil over the vomit. So far, no one had noticed. Except maybe the potplant, which seemed to thrive on her little secret.

Roz didn’t give out secrets easily. Hers were too volatile. In the wrong hands… But Orlan knew hers, and she knew his. Which made it all the more perplexing. When she placed the kitten in his cupped palms, he’d tickled the tiny creamy circle at its belly. Plenty of hands had left their mark on her before. Roz knew hands. His were not the wrong hands.
“Dark on the outside, light on the inside. Perfect. I’ll call him Oreo,” he said gently.

While Oreo napped in kitty obliviousness, Roz let Orlan write his dark stories all over her. She especially liked his talent for forceful conclusions. She liked doing it without the videotape running, without Godfrey’s absurd directions.

She’d never expected he would enter that part of her life. Dead pussy. Was he warning her? If Godfrey knew about this… She had to find out what they’d done with Orlan. The real Orlan.