Free Words With Fiends by Ali Brandon

something other than his wardrobe.
    Hopefully a good sign?
she thought.
On the bright side, unlike that cat guy on the animal cable channel, he didn’t cart around a blinged-out guitar case filled with cat toys—something told her that Hamlet would not have approved. Though, when it came down to it, she suspected he wasn’t going to think much of Brody, either.
    â€œSo, where’s our client?” he asked with a glance about the store.
    Darla pointed to where Hamlet still reclined on an upper shelf. “There. You probably should know that—”
    â€œWait!”
    He raised one shoulder in lieu of raising a hand, stopping her short. “I don’t want to crowd my mind with any preconceived notions. All I need to know is his name, how old he is, how long he has been here, and how long ago his problems started.”
    Gamely, Darla filled in those blanks, earning a nod when she was finished. “Perfect,” he replied. “Now, if you can bring me a chair—preferably wood, no cushions, please—I’ll find out why Hamlet is not functioning at his highest level.”
    Darla hurried to find an appropriate seat. By the time she had wrestled a vintage ladder-back chair from its spot in the social sciences section, Brody had made his way over to the shelf where Hamlet lay. Now, the pair eyed each other, Hamlet’s green eyes suspicious emerald slits, and Brody’s wide brown eyes reflecting calm watchfulness. Darla quizzically studied them both as she set the chair next to the man.
    â€œI’ll be opening the store in another minute,” she reminded him. “Are you sure we shouldn’t take Hamlet upstairs to the lounge where you won’t be disturbed?”
    â€œWe’re fine here. Give us half an hour or so.”
    He took the chair Darla had brought for him and arranged it a couple of feet from the shelf, sitting with his elbows propped on his knees, and his chin propped on his fists. At this intrusion into his personal space, Hamlet opened his eyes wider and pulled his paws under him, as if preparing to haul tail. Then, apparently deciding flight was too much effort, he relaxed and settled in a similar position to Brody, chin on paws and cool green eyes unblinking.
    The first influx of Saturday morning customers did not disturb them. In fact, the two were still staring down each other thirty minutes later when Jake came strolling in, her black leather duster billowing from a gust of cold air before she shut the door behind her. A faint whiff of cigarette smoke accompanied her as well, and Darla wrinkled her nose. Apparently, Jake’s attempts to ditch the smoking habit still hadn’t fully taken, though she was proud of her friend for having cut down to just a couple of cigarettes a day.
    â€œHey, kid, my printer just croaked,” the PI said by way of greeting. “Mind if I borrow yours? I’ve got a photo here I really need to get printed,” she explained, waving a shiny silver flash drive which Darla assumed held said files.
    â€œNo problem,” she agreed. “Any special kind of paper?”
    â€œNo, I . . .”
    Jake trailed off, having caught sight of the man-feline stare-down the next aisle over. Joining Darla at the counter, she lowered her voice and asked, “What the heck is going on between that guy and Hamlet?”
    â€œRemember I told you the other day that he seems to have some kind of PTSD thing going on? Well, Brody’s here to figure out how to help him. He’s Hamlet’s feline behavioral empath,” Darla softly told her, proud that she’d managed the unwieldy title without stumbling over her words.
    Jake opened her eyes wide. “Feline behavioral who? No, never mind. So, is he doing a Vulcan mind meld or something?”
    â€œI guess,” was Darla’s doubtful reply as she glanced at her watch. “Whatever it is, I don’t think either one of them has blinked