Chapter 14: Kitchen Counter Confessions
The private jet touched down at O'Hare just after three in the afternoon, the landing smooth enough that Casey barely stirred from her doze. She'd fallen asleep somewhere over Indiana, her head against Mike's shoulder, her hand still loosely clasped in his.
Amy and Jason were already waiting by the time they disembarked, their rental car idling at the curb.
"We'll follow you," Amy said, her blonde hair whipping in the cold Chicago wind. "Figured you'd want to get home first. Drop bags. Feed the cats."
"The cats," Mike said. "Shit. I forgot about the cats."
"Mrs. Anderson's been checking on them," Casey said. "I texted her before we left."
"Betty?"
"She's not so bad once you get past the HOA threats and the chihuahua."
"She called the police on us three times last year."
"Twice. The third time was the fire department."
"Same difference."
They drove through the suburbs in a loose caravan, the rental car behind them, the familiar streets of their neighborhood unfolding like a worn map. The autumn leaves had turned—gold and orange and deep, bloody red—and the sky was that particular shade of gray that meant snow was coming. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon.
The Horny House sat at the end of the cul-de-sac, looking exactly as they'd left it: a two-story colonial with peeling paint and a porch that sagged slightly on the left side. The lawn needed mowing. The gutters needed cleaning. The wards needed recharging.
Home.
Mike killed the engine. For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Casey opened her door. "Let's go."
The cats met them at the threshold.
Rembrandt—a Maine Coon the size of a small dog, with fur the color of storm clouds and eyes like amber glass—sat on the welcome mat, his tail twitching. VanGogh—a black tomcat with a scarred ear and the general demeanor of a mob enforcer—lounged on the hall table, one paw draped over the edge like he owned the place.
Both cats stared at Mike and Casey with expressions of profound judgment.
"We were gone for four days," Casey said.
VanGogh yawned.
"You had Mrs. Anderson. She fed you. She petted you. She probably sang to you."
Rembrandt made a sound that was somewhere between a purr and a growl.
"Fine. We're terrible parents. Sue us."
Mike dropped the bags by the door and made his way to the kitchen. The enchanted appliances hummed their greeting—the fridge whispered something in Latin that might have been "welcome home" or might have been a recipe for something involving goat blood. The toaster shot out a single, glowing bread spirit that hovered for a moment before dissipating with a tiny, disappointed sigh.
The potion of liquid nostalgia still bubbled on the counter, untouched since before they'd left. It had turned a deeper shade of purple in their absence, and the bubbles were now forming shapes—faces, almost, or maybe just coincidental patterns in the viscous surface.
Mike decided not to look at it too closely.
He opened the fridge, found a beer, and cracked it open. Casey did the same. They stood in the kitchen, backs against the counter, drinking in silence.
Amy appeared in the doorway.
She had that look. The one that meant she'd been waiting for something for a very long time and was about to get it.
"So," she said.
"So?" Mike took a sip of his beer.
"You two are a mess."
Casey raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"A mess. Unfocused. Useless." Amy crossed her arms. "You've been running on adrenaline and worry since Miami. You're no good to anyone until you get your heads on straight."
Mike and Casey exchanged a deliberately clueless look.
"I'm sorry," Mike said. "I don't know what you mean."
"No?"
"No."
Casey shook her head. "Not a clue."
Amy's grin widened. "Partner swap."
The words hung in the air like a challenge.
Mike took another sip of his beer. "That's a hell of a thing to say."
"It's a hell of a thing to need." Amy stepped closer. "You've been running around for days—worrying about Rachel, worrying about Cody, worrying about Brigid, worrying about the girls. You haven't had a moment to yourselves. You haven't had a moment to just... let go."
"We had sex this morning," Casey said. "Several times. With you."
"That was fun. That was necessary. But that wasn't this." Amy gestured between them. "This. The thing you two do. The thing that resets you."
Mike frowned. "How do you know about the thing we do?"
"Because I've known you for twenty years. Because I've seen the way you look at each other after. Because Jan told me." Amy shrugged. "Mostly Jan told me."
Casey laughed. "Of course she did."
"So." Amy held out her hands. "Partner swap. You and me. Jason and Casey. And Katrina—" She glanced toward the hallway, where Katrina had just appeared, her duffel bag still in her hand. "Katrina can join in whatever way she wants."
Katrina blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"Sex," Amy said. "We're having sex. You're invited."
"I—" Katrina's cheeks flushed. "I just got here."
"So did we. It's fine."
"I haven't even put my bag down."
"Put it down."
Mike and Casey exchanged another look. This one was less deliberately clueless and more genuinely uncertain.
"Amy," Casey said. "We just got home. We have a lot to do. Cody's missing. Brigid's falling apart. We need to—"
"You need to get your heads on straight." Amy stepped forward and took the beer from Casey's hand. "You're no good to Brigid like this. You're no good to Cody like this. You're running on fumes and guilt and fear, and it's going to get someone killed."
She set the beer on the counter.
"So here's what's going to happen. You're going to let me and Jason take care of you. You're going to stop thinking for twenty minutes. And then you're going to be the Mike and Casey everyone needs you to be."
Casey opened her mouth to argue.
Amy kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was the kind of kiss that said shut up and let me help you, the kind of kiss that brooked no argument, the kind of kiss that tasted like determination and champagne and the faint, lingering sweetness of airplane snacks.
Casey kissed her back.
Mike watched. His beer hung forgotten in his hand. His heart hammered against his ribs.
Jason appeared in the doorway. He took one look at the scene—his wife's tongue in Casey's mouth, Mike standing frozen by the counter—and smiled.
"Finally," he said.
Then he walked to Casey and pulled her leggings down.
---
Casey gasped against Amy's mouth as Jason's hands found her hips. He bent her over the kitchen island—the same island where they'd eaten breakfast a thousand times, where the kids had done homework, where Rembrandt had once coughed up a hairball the size of a golf ball—and she went willingly, her palms flat against the cool granite.
"Okay," she breathed. "Okay."
Amy pulled back. Her lips were red, her eyes bright. She looked at Mike.
"Your turn," she said.
She dropped to her knees.
Mike's brain short-circuited. He'd seen Amy naked before—many times, in many contexts—but there was something about the way she did this, the way she took charge, the way she looked up at him from the kitchen floor with that particular gleam in her eye, that made him forget how to form words.
She unzipped his jeans. She pulled them down. She took his cock in her hand and stroked it once, twice, three times.
"Been a while," she said.
"Since this morning."
"Since you were hard just from watching me kiss your wife."
Mike's breath caught. "That obvious?"
"Your jeans don't lie."
She took him in her mouth.
Mike's head fell back. The refrigerator hummed behind him. The potion of liquid nostalgia bubbled on the counter. Somewhere in the distance, the toaster shot out another bread spirit, which promptly dissolved with a tiny, scandalized squeak.
Amy worked him with her tongue, with her lips, with the kind of practiced skill that came from decades of knowing exactly what she wanted and exactly how to get it. Her free hand cupped his balls. Her other hand braced against his thigh.
Across the kitchen, Jason had his face buried between Casey's legs.
Casey moaned—a low, guttural sound that vibrated through the air. Her fingers curled against the granite. Her hips rolled back, meeting Jason's tongue, meeting his mouth, meeting the relentless, wet heat of him.
"That's it," Jason murmured against her. "Let go."
"I'm trying—"
"Stop trying. Just feel."
Casey's breath hitched. Her legs trembled.
Katrina stood in the doorway, still holding her bag.
She watched.
Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were wide. She'd been part of this family for nearly a year now—had slept in their guest room, eaten at their table, celebrated holidays with them—but she'd never seen this. Never this.
Amy pulled off Mike's cock with a wet pop. She looked over her shoulder at Katrina.
"You're still dressed," she said.
Katrina's throat bobbed. "I—"
"Bag down. Clothes off. Counter."
"I don't—"
"Katrina." Amy's voice softened. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to. But if you want to, the offer stands."
Katrina stood frozen for a long moment.
Then she dropped her bag.
Then she pulled off her shirt.
Then she climbed onto the counter.
Her body was a dancer's body—lean and lithe and graceful, with muscles that moved beneath her skin like water. Her breasts were small and firm. Her nipples were already hard. Her cunt glistened in the blue light of the neon sigils flickering under the cabinets.
She spread her legs.
Casey looked up from the island. Her eyes met Katrina's.
"Okay?" Casey asked.
Katrina nodded. "Okay."
Casey pulled away from Jason—reluctantly, regretfully—and crossed to the counter. She knelt between Katrina's thighs. She looked up at the younger woman, at the storm-gray eyes that had seen thirty years of nothing, at the body that hadn't aged a day.
"I've wanted to do this for a while," Casey admitted.
"Me too," Katrina whispered.
Casey leaned in.
She dragged her tongue along Katrina's slit—slow, deliberate, savoring. Katrina gasped. Her hips bucked. Her fingers found Casey's hair and held on.
Behind them, Jason stepped out of his pants.
He walked to the island. He positioned himself behind Casey. He ran a hand down her back—gentle, reverent—and then he pushed inside her.
Casey moaned against Katrina's cunt.
The vibration made Katrina moan too.
Amy climbed to her feet. She kissed Mike—hard, filthy, the taste of his own cock still on her tongue—and then she hopped onto the counter beside Katrina.
"Come here," she said.
Mike came.
Amy spread her legs. She was already wet—had been wet since the airport, probably, since she'd first conceived of this plan—and she guided him inside her with a single, smooth motion.
Mike groaned.
She was tight. She was hot. She was Amy, and she was looking at him with that shit-eating grin, and she was saying, "Fuck me. Hard. Don't think. Just fuck."
He fucked her.
The kitchen filled with sound.
Skin slapping against skin. Moans and gasps and the wet, rhythmic noise of bodies moving together. Mike's hips slammed into Amy's, driving her back against the cabinets. Her heels—still wearing heels, because of course she was—banged against the wood with every thrust.
Jason fucked Casey from behind, his balls slapping against her ass, his hands gripping her hips.
Casey ate Katrina's pussy like it was the only thing keeping her alive.
Katrina writhed on the counter. Her back arched. Her mouth opened. Words spilled out—not English, not anything Mike recognized, maybe not anything from this dimension—and then she came with a sharp, keening cry that seemed to echo off the walls.
Casey didn't stop.
She lapped at Katrina's cunt, drinking down her release, her own hips still rocking back against Jason's relentless rhythm.
Amy's legs wrapped around Mike's waist. Her nails dug into his shoulders.
"Harder," she demanded. "Fucking harder."
Mike gave her harder.
The counter creaked. The cabinets rattled. Somewhere, Rembrandt yowled in protest.
Amy came with a scream—loud, unashamed, the kind of scream that probably woke Mrs. Anderson across the street.
Mike kept going.
---
The swap shifted.
Mike pulled out of Amy and took Katrina from behind while Amy slid off the counter and dropped to her knees beside Casey.
Katrina was still trembling from her first orgasm, but she wanted more—her eyes said so, her hands said so, the way she pushed back against him said so—and Mike gave it to her.
She was tight. God, she was tight. Thirty years in a void and a dancer's discipline had left her body like a vice, and every thrust felt like a revelation. Her long black hair spilled across the counter. Her fingers scrabbled for purchase on the smooth granite.
"Fuck," she breathed. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
Mike grabbed her hips and fucked her harder.
On the floor, Amy buried her face between Casey's legs.
Casey was already close—had been close since Jason first pushed inside her—and Amy's tongue was relentless, expert, cruel. She licked and sucked and flicked, and Casey's thighs clamped around her head, and she came with a gush that soaked Amy's chin and cheeks and the floor beneath them.
Jason stroked himself and watched.
His wife, covered in Casey's release. His friend's wife, sprawled on the kitchen tile with her legs still twitching. Katrina on the counter, getting pounded by Mike. The cats had retreated to the hallway, where they sat in judgmental silence.
"You're all beautiful," Jason said.
"Shut up," Casey gasped.
"I mean it. You're—" He gestured vaguely with his free hand. "—beautiful."
"You're about to come on my floor."
"I'm about to come on your floor."
"Don't."
"I'm going to."
"Jason—"
He came on her floor.
Casey laughed—a hoarse, breathless sound—and let her head fall back against the tile.
Mike was close. He could feel it building—that pressure at the base of his spine, that tightening in his balls. He fucked Katrina faster, harder, chasing the edge.
"Come inside me," Katrina said. "Please. I want to feel it."
Mike didn't need to be asked twice.
He came with a groan—long, deep, emptying himself into her—and Katrina's body convulsed around him, milking him dry, pulling every last drop from his cock.
For a moment, the kitchen was silent.
Then Amy lifted her head from Casey's cunt and grinned.
"Told ya," she said.
---
Amy's grin was still plastered across her face when she stretched out on the kitchen tile, her blonde hair fanned around her head, her legs splayed wide. She was a mess—sweat-slicked and flushed, her cunt still glistening with Casey's release and her own—and she looked absolutely fucking delighted about it.
Mike's cock twitched.
He'd just come inside Katrina. He'd emptied himself so completely that his legs felt like they might give out. And yet there he was, staring at Amy's spread thighs and her wet, pink pussy and the way she was looking at him like she knew exactly what he was thinking.
"Come on," she said. "One more."
"Are you serious?"
"Do I look serious?"
She looked like a woman who'd just been fucked on a kitchen counter and wanted to be fucked again on a kitchen floor. She looked like a woman who knew that Mike's refractory period had always been embarrassingly short, especially when his wife was watching.
Mike glanced at Casey.
Casey was sitting against the cabinets, her knees drawn up, her fingers lazily stroking her clit. She met his eyes and shrugged.
"She's not wrong," Casey said. "You're already hard."
"I'm not—"
"You're hard."
He looked down. He was hard.
"Christ," he muttered.
Amy laughed and reached for him. "Get down here."
Mike got down there.
He knelt between her legs. He ran his hands up her thighs—still trembling, still slick with sweat—and positioned himself at her entrance. She was so wet that he slid in without resistance, bottoming out in one smooth thrust.
Amy's back arched. Her eyes fluttered closed.
"Fuck," she breathed. "That's it. That's exactly it."
Across the kitchen, Katrina had crawled to Jason.
She was still trembling from her own orgasm, but there was something determined in her eyes, something hungry. She knelt between his legs and took his cock in her hand—still slick with Casey's juices, still half-hard from his earlier release—and stroked him slowly.
"Can you get hard again?" she asked.
Jason's breath hitched. "For you? Absolutely."
She took him in her mouth.
She worked him with her tongue and her lips, her dark hair spilling across his thighs, her hands cupping his balls. She sucked him like she'd been thinking about it for a year—which, Mike realized with a jolt, she probably had. A year of living with this family. A year of watching and wondering and wanting.
Jason groaned. His fingers tangled in her hair.
"God," he said. "God, that's good."
Katrina pulled off him long enough to say, "I'm not done."
She climbed onto his lap.
She positioned him at her entrance—still wet, still stretched from Mike's earlier efforts—and sank down onto him with a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her chest.
Jason grabbed her hips. She rode him slowly at first, her body undulating like water, her tits bouncing with every movement. Then faster. Harder. The kitchen filled with the wet slap of skin against skin.
Casey watched.
Her fingers moved in lazy circles over her clit. She'd come twice already—once on Jason's tongue, once on Amy's—but she could feel another building. Slow. Patient. Inevitable.
But her mind wasn't on the sex.
Her mind was somewhere else.
Somewhere older. Somewhere colder.
She remembered the night Inez Murphy came to the Horny House.
---
It was a Thursday.
Casey remembered that because Thursdays were leftover night—clean out the fridge, make everyone eat whatever was about to go bad, call it dinner. Mike was out helping Hank and Fatima set up a computer system for the new Green Moon meditation center. Rick and Mandy were upstairs doing homework, or pretending to do homework, or whatever teenagers did when their parents weren't watching.
Beth and Calista were in the living room with Rachel.
They were supposed to be studying for a math test. They were actually building a pillow fort and giving Calista's glamour a workout by making her tail appear and disappear like a magic trick. Calista was twelve then—all elbows and knees and that silver hair she still hadn't grown into—and her glamour had just started manifesting.
She'd accidentally given herself a fluffy, pink cat's tail the week before.
She'd been mortified. Beth had thought it was hilarious. Rachel had laughed so hard she'd fallen off the couch.
That was the thing about Rachel. She never looked at Calista like she was strange. She never looked at any of them like they were strange. She just saw a girl with a tail and thought it was the coolest thing she'd ever seen.
Casey had been in the kitchen, making coffee, listening to them giggle.
She'd felt something warm in her chest. Something like contentment. Something like pride.
Then the doorbell rang.
She opened the door and found Inez Murphy standing on her porch.
Inez was a severe woman—dark hair pulled back in a bun so tight it looked painful, lips pressed into a line that suggested she'd never smiled in her life. She was wearing a church dress, the kind with a high collar and long sleeves, even though it was a weeknight and they weren't going anywhere.
"Mrs. Murphy," Casey said. "This is a surprise."
"I'm here for my daughter."
"She's in the living room. Come in."
"I'll wait here."
Casey hesitated. There was something in Inez's voice—something cold, something coiled—that made her want to close the door.
But Rachel was Beth's best friend. Rachel was a sweet kid. Rachel was always welcome.
"Rachel!" Casey called. "Your mom's here!"
Rachel appeared in the hallway, her red hair bouncing, her face bright with the particular joy of a kid who'd just been laughing.
"Mom! What are you—"
"Get your things."
"But we're in the middle of—"
"Now."
Rachel's face fell. "Can I at least say goodbye to—"
"No."
Inez took a step forward. She was looking past Rachel, looking into the house, looking at something specific.
At Calista.
Calista had appeared in the hallway behind Rachel, her silver hair catching the light, her golden eyes wide and curious. The pink cat's tail was gone—she'd dispelled it when the doorbell rang—but there was something about her that was still unmistakably not human. The ears. The skin. The way she moved like she was listening to music no one else could hear.
Inez's face twisted.
"You," she said.
Calista blinked. "Me?"
"You and your kind."
"Inez—" Casey started.
"Don't." Inez's voice cracked like ice. "Don't you dare defend this. This house. This filth."
Beth had appeared beside Calista, her face pale, her fists clenched.
"Don't talk about my sister like that."
"Your sister?" Inez laughed—a brittle, awful sound. "That thing isn't your sister. That thing is an abomination. A creature. A—"
"That's enough." Casey stepped forward. Her voice was calm, but her hands were shaking. "You need to leave."
"I'm taking my daughter."
"Then take her. But you're not going to stand in my house and insult my child."
Inez's eyes blazed. "Your child. Your child." She pointed at Calista. "You think that's a child? You think that's anything but a mockery of God's design?"
"Mom," Rachel whispered. "Please."
"Get in the car."
Rachel looked at Beth. At Calista. At Casey.
"I'm sorry," she mouthed.
Then she was gone.
Inez pulled her out the door so hard that Rachel stumbled on the steps. The door slammed shut. The house fell silent.
Calista started to cry.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quiet, hitching sobs that shook her whole body, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.
Casey crossed the room in three steps and pulled her into her arms.
"It's okay," she said. "It's okay, baby. She's wrong. She's wrong about everything."
Beth was crying too, now. Silent tears. Shocked tears.
Rick and Mandy had appeared at the top of the stairs, their faces drawn, their eyes wide. They'd heard everything. They'd heard the word "abomination" and watched their little sister crumble.
Casey held Calista for hours.
She didn't let go until the sobs stopped. Until Calista's breathing evened out. Until the tears dried on her cheeks and left only salt tracks behind.
That was the night Casey learned to hate Inez Murphy.
---
She blinked.
The memory faded, but the anger stayed—warm and familiar, a coal in her chest that had been burning for years.
She looked at the scene before her. Mike, still pumping into Amy, his face buried in her neck. Katrina, riding Jason with a focus that bordered on religious. Amy, eyes closed, mouth open, moaning with every thrust.
She looked at them and realized the anger had shifted.
It wasn't hot anymore. It was cold. Determined. It was the kind of anger that didn't burn—it built.
Amy had been right.
She wasn't focused. She was running on fumes and guilt and fear, and it was going to get someone killed. Cody was missing. Brigid was alone. Amanda was terrified.
And Inez Murphy was sitting somewhere in Chicago, waiting, probably—plotting, probably—wondering how long it would take before her enemies tore themselves apart looking for a boy who might already be dead.
Casey wasn't going to let that happen.
She pushed herself to her feet.
Mike looked up, his hips still moving, his eyes dazed.
"Case—"
"Don't stop." She crossed to him, her body still humming, and pressed a hand to his back. "Keep going. Both of you. Just—don't stop."
"You okay?"
"I'm fine." She kissed his temple. "I'm better than fine. I'm remembering what I'm supposed to do."
She turned and walked to the hallway.
She picked up the house phone—a landline, because Mike insisted on it, because cell phones could be tracked and landlines couldn't and that had been a lesson they'd learned the hard way—and dialed a number she knew by heart.
It rang three times.
"Mara Henderson's office. How can I help you?"
"Mara? It's Casey."
The voice on the other end of the line turned warm. "Casey. What's wrong?"
"I need a lawyer."
"When?"
"Now."
A pause. Then, "Where are you?"
"Home. The Horny House. Can you—"
"I'll be there in twenty minutes. What's this about?"
"Cody Murphy. Missing. We think the Consortium took him."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"I'll be there in fifteen."
The line clicked.
Casey hung up. She walked back to the kitchen, where the sounds of sex had reached a fever pitch—Amy screaming, Jason groaning, Katrina gasping, Mike grunting—and she picked up her phone from the counter.
She scrolled through her contacts until she found the number she wanted.
It rang twice.
"Brigid O'Connor."
"Brigid. It's Casey."
"Casey." Brigid's voice was raw, exhausted, hollow. "You're back."
"We're back. We're on it."
"Casey, I—"
"Don't." Casey's voice was firm but gentle. "Don't apologize. Don't explain. Just tell me what you know."
Brigid took a breath. When she spoke again, her voice was steadier.
"Jenny and Amanda are upset. They want to help, but they're too close. Will and Sarah are trying to keep them calm. I—I don't know what to do."
"Where are you?"
"The hospital. They released me an hour ago, but I'm still—I'm staying with them."
"Good. Stay there. We're going to find him."
"How?"
"We're working on that. Just—keep your phone close."
"Casey—"
"I said we're going to find him. And we are. But you need to trust me."
A long pause. Then, quietly, "I do."
"Good. I'll call you when I have news."
Casey hung up and turned back to the kitchen.
Mike was pulling out of Amy, his cock still hard, his face flushed. Amy was sprawled on the floor, panting, grinning. Katrina had collapsed against Jason's chest, her body trembling with aftershocks.
They all looked at her.
"We need to find Cody," Casey said. "And I have a plan."
---
The mood shifted.
Amy sat up, all traces of playfulness gone from her face. Jason straightened, his arm still around Katrina. Mike zipped his pants with the grim efficiency of a man who'd just remembered there was a world outside this kitchen.
"What do we know?" Amy asked.
"The Consortium attacked Brigid's house while she was out. They hurt Will, Sarah, Jenny, and Amanda. They're all recovering, but they're in the hospital. While Brigid was watching over them, Cody slipped out to follow a lead of some kind. He never came back."
"He's not answering his phone?"
"Nothing. Not even a text."
The words hung in the air—heavy, dark, full of implications no one wanted to name.
Mike said, "Hank and Fatima might know something. They've been tracking Consortium movements for months."
Amy nodded. "I'll check with Mara. See if we can get a restraining order, something to put pressure on Inez legally."
"I'll call Aunt Calli," Casey said. "If anyone knows where the Consortium's hiding, it's the Merlin of the Golden Wands."
Katrina stood. Her legs were still shaky, but her eyes were clear. "I'll visit Mark. If I can get to the prison before visiting hours end—"
"Do you think he knows something?"
"Shaw watched everyone. The Consortium hated magic no matter who wielded it. Mark was her top operative for years. He might have dirt on them."
Mike nodded slowly. "Then we go. All of us. We meet back here in a few hours with whatever we've got."
"And we bring friends who can help with the search," Amy added.
"And we don't stop until we find him."
Casey walked to Mike and took his face in her hands.
"Be careful," she said.
"I will."
"I mean it. I know you. You'll walk into something stupid if you think it's the right thing to do."
He smiled. "You know me."
"That's why I'm worried."
He kissed her. Long. Slow. The kind of kiss that said everything—that said I love you, that said I'll come back, that said we've survived worse.
When he pulled back, his eyes were wet.
"Three hours," he said.
"Three hours."
He turned and walked out the door.
Amy and Jason followed. Katrina paused at the threshold and looked back at Casey.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For making me part of this. For treating me like family."
Casey smiled. "You are family."
Katrina nodded. Then she was gone.
Casey stood in the kitchen. The cats walked in from the hallway and wound around her ankles—Rembrandt purring, VanGogh silent.
She walked to the counter and picked up her phone.
She had calls to make.