Chapter 4

I didn't wait.

I sprinted, keeping low, hugging the shadows of the neighboring fences. The yards were small, cluttered. I knew every inch of this block.

The cougar was snarling at the men, lunging at the flickering torchlight, momentarily forgetting the back of the house.

I reached our overgrown backyard, my lungs burning.

The cellar vent was partially hidden by a thicket of thorny bushes. I pushed through them, ignoring the scratches.

The opening was small, dark, and smelled of damp earth and decay.

I took a deep breath and wriggled in, feet first.

It was a tight squeeze. Dirt and cobwebs rained down on me. My shoulders scraped against the rough brick.

Then I was through, dropping onto the damp, packed-earth floor of the cellar.

It was pitch black.

"Grandma?" I whispered, my voice trembling.

A faint sob answered me from the direction of the cellar stairs.

I fumbled my way towards the sound, my hands outstretched.

"Grandma, it's me, Emily!"

Her arms found me, clutching me tightly. She was shaking violently.

"Oh, Emily, child, you shouldn't have come! That beast..."

"We don't have time, Grandma. We have to get out. Can you fit through the vent?"

I led her back to the opening. The shouts and roars from the front yard were a constant, terrifying backdrop.

"I... I don't know, child. It's so small."

"You have to try. I'll help you. Climb on my shoulders."

It was awkward, difficult. She was frail but surprisingly heavy with fear.

I braced myself against the wall, gritting my teeth as she struggled upwards.

"Push, Grandma, push!"

Outside, I heard Mike's voice, low and urgent. "See anything?"

"Almost... her hands are through!" another voice replied.

With a final, desperate shove from me, and strong hands pulling from outside, Grandma was hauled through the opening.

I waited a moment, catching my breath, then scrambled up and out myself, helped by Mike.

Grandma was safe, bundled into the arms of a neighbor.

But the "knowing" was still there, a cold pressure in my chest. It wasn't over.

The cougar was still at the front, enraged.

"What was it looking for, Emily?" Mike asked, his face grim in the torchlight.

"I don't know. But I'm going to find out."

Ignoring his protest, I slipped back towards our yard, this time heading for the dilapidated old tool shed at the very back of the property. It was a place Dad never went, full of rusted tools and forgotten junk.

The shed door creaked open. The air inside was stale.

My eyes scanned the cluttered interior.

And then I saw it.

Tucked behind a stack of old tires, in a large, cracked pickling crock we sometimes used to store potatoes in winter, was a tiny, spotted creature.

A cougar cub.

It was mewling pitifully, its eyes barely open.

My blood ran cold.

Someone had put it here. Deliberately.

And I knew who.

Jessica.

This had her spiteful, cruel mark all over it. She must have found it, stolen it from a den somewhere in the state park bordering the county, and hidden it here. To cause trouble. To hurt me, or Grandma.

The mother cougar wasn't just hungry or aggressive.

She was a mother, looking for her baby.

And now, the scent of that cub, and my handling of it, would be all over me.

The roars from the front yard suddenly sounded closer, more frantic.

The men's shouts turned to cries of alarm.

The mother cougar knew. She knew her cub was near.

And I was standing right next to it.