The Writer Gets a Clue

The taxi ride was bumpy, and in a word : gargled. Scooter was being a complete whiner, and he even got the taxi driver threatening to pull over and throw him out.

“I told you he’d cause nothing but trouble,” Raine whispered, leaning close to me.

I cracked my knuckles. “Are both of you going to quit acting like kids, or am I going to Ireland on my own?”

Scooter mewed, and his human counterpart gave no answer.

“You’re very much alike, if you think about it,” I mused, “you’re stubborn, hardheaded, use violence to get your way, but strangely caring.”

“So, you do admit that I care.”

“I was talking about the cat.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure you were. Keep telling yourself that.”

I was about to burst out laughing, but we entered town and my eyes were (naturally) drawn to the big billboard that was posted just outside the pharmacist’s.

“You look a bit pale.”

“No, I’m fine.”

My answer didn’t sound all that convincing. I had just seen a ‘missing person’ poster with Raine’s picture plastered on it.

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