Watch for the Dead (Relatively Dead Book 4) by Sheila Connolly

charging in the dining room and called up the weather again. The thumbnail report told her nothing new: wind and rain. Or rain and wind. It might end tonight. It was not—repeat not—a hurricane, just a bad storm. Okay, she could live with that. They had plenty to do without leaving the house. If it didn’t look too bad outside, maybe they could go walk on a beach in the rain—at least it wouldn’t be crowded. No message from Ned. He must be at work by now. Or he’d been there early, trying to push through whatever project he was working on so he could join them on Friday. Tomorrow.
    When Abby went back to the kitchen, Ellie was sitting very still with her head cocked. “You hear something?” Abby asked.
    “I think so. No, not one of them. There—you hear that?”
    All Abby could hear was the wind tearing around the corners of the house. She shook her head. “No, I can’t hear anything over the storm. What is it, do you think?”
    “It sounds like a kitten. I’m going to go look.” She leaped out of her chair and headed for the back door.
    “Ellie, wait!” Abby cried out, but not in time to stop her from opening the inner door and then the screen door, which was nearly ripped out of her hand by the force of the wind. Abby got there in time to grab it before it slammed against the railing on the steps. They stood in the doorway, listening for a moment, and this time Abby thought she heard a mewling. Although it could have been a distant seagull calling.
    Ellie bounded down the stairs and turned in a circle, watching and listening. She bent over double and looked under Abby’s car, then turned back toward the house. The house itself sat up on pilings, and the gaps between the pilings were filled with white-painted lattice—the real wooden kind, Abby noted, not the modern plastic imitation. Ellie pointed. “It’s coming from under the house.”
    In the minute she’d been outside, Abby was soaked to the skin, the wind whipping her sodden hair into her eyes. She came down the stairs quickly and joined Ellie, glad for the small shelter the house provided from the wind. Ellie grabbed her hand and tugged her to the place where the stairs were attached to the house, and then she knelt down. “Hey, kitty!” she said, her tone delighted. “Look, Abby!”
    Abby knelt down beside Ellie and peered into the gloom beneath the house. Yes, it was indeed a kitten. A very small one, Abby noted—was it even old enough to be away from its mother? It was as wet as they were—so wet that Abby couldn’t even tell what color it was. It opened its tiny mouth, revealing pink gums and sharp little teeth, and mewed again, sounding pitiful.
    But not afraid. Ellie extended her hand to the bedraggled little creature, and the kitten came to her immediately. Abby didn’t have time to worry whether Ellie knew how to handle an animal that small: Ellie picked her up and cuddled her against her chest. “She’s hungry.”
    So now Ellie was a cat whisperer too? “Then we’d better get her inside and feed her.”
    They battled their way against the wind and in through the back door, shutting it firmly behind them. Ellie was still cradling the kitten, who didn’t seem to mind at all. The little creature stared curiously at Abby. Abby stared back. Now what?
    Get the kitten dry. That meant a towel. Upstairs. “Be right back,” Abby told Ellie, then dashed up the stairs, found a dry towel, and hurried back down. “Here,” Abby said, unfolding the towel, then bunching it into a nest. Ellie transferred the wet bundle into the towel, and Abby brought it close to her—for warmth? For comfort? The kitten snuggled against her and stared up at her with wide green eyes.
    “Food?” Ellie said.
    “Uh, there’s part of a leftover hamburger from the other night. You could chop that up real fine. I’m not sure how old Kitten here is, or whether she’s ready to eat real food.” Why had she decided Kitten was a she? “If that doesn’t