Free The Witch by Jean Thompson

didn’t bother arguing with him. “So you’re the nonverbal type. Strong and silent and solvent. That’s not nothing. Grab that bucket, would you? We might as well do one big rose dump.”
    They parked the van in front of what looked like the girl equivalent of their own rented house. A little shabby and saggy, like their own, but with better curtains and no old newspapers on the porch. Lance rang the bell and ran through a list of names under his breath: “Alexa, Alissa, Amber, Andrea . . .” Thedoor opened and a girl with a round face looked out. “Angela! How’s the party girl?”
    Lance stepped through the open door and held the roses out. Angela didn’t take them. She sniffed, a long, soggy sound. “Are those because of Mr. Whipple?”
    â€œBeg pardon?”
    â€œMr. Whipple died. Our cat.” She regarded the roses bleakly. “He wasn’t even sick or anything.” She sniffed again, her nose turning pink.
    â€œAw honey, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
    â€œWe took him to the emergency vet and they gave him some fluids and shots and all, but his kidneys shut down. We had him since he was a little, little kitten.”
    â€œThat is so sad. Poor kitty.” Lance, recalibrating, all sympathy. Royboy tried to look sad as well.
    â€œWe still have all his toys. His catnip mouse. His furry bunny.”
    Lance offered the roses again. “Why don’t you take these to cheer you up. Is anybody else home?”
    â€œYeah.” She called up the stairs. “Lance and some guy are here.” She blinked moistly at the roses. “These are pretty. We could make a little wreath or something for him.”
    â€œYou could,” Lance said, giving Royboy a look that meant they wouldn’t be staying long.
    Two more girls came down the staircase, both of them looking subdued, bleakly mourning. Royboy gave Lance a discreet shake of the head. Nope. Nope. “Hey Lance,” one of them said. “The cat died. It sucks.”
    â€œI know. But I bet there’s some other little kitty out there right now who’s waiting for you to bring him home and love him. Or her.”
    â€œThat’s a nice thought, I guess.” Both the girls plopped downon the couch next to each other and stared at them. “Did you want a beer or something?”
    â€œI think we’re out of beer,” the second girl said.
    â€œWe don’t really need anything,” Lance said. “I can see you aren’t up for company right now.”
    Angela came back in then, with the roses crowded into a too-small jar. “This was all I could find.”
    One of the girls on the couch said, “Did you bring these? What’s the occasion?”
    Lance said, “Oh, it’s just something Roy and I thought—”
    The girls interrupted, galvanized. “Roy? He’s Roy?”
    â€œ
The
Roy?”
    All three of them were looking at him in a not-friendly way, like he was the one who killed their cat. Royboy shook his head at Lance: No clue. “I don’t think I’m
The
Roy,” he said.
    â€œBuddy, you better hope you’re not.”
    Lance said, “Maybe we could back this up a little. What’s my bud here been up to? He’s sort of cloudy on the details.” Royboy nodded, trying to look humble and at the same time injured at being unjustly accused of whatever it was he did.
    The girls weren’t having any of it. “He has some nerve, showing up here. What’s he trying to do to her, pretend it was all some big joke? It’s not like she gets out much.”
    â€œThrough no fault of her own,” another girl said, loyally. “Men just don’t make the effort with her.”
    â€œHer who? What? Guys! I mean, you’re not actually guys, sorry.” Royboy tried laughing this off. Ha ha. “Who?” he asked again.
    â€œLaura. Don’t tell me you