Curiosity Kills The Cat
I told myself I wasn’t going.
Told myself a hundred fucking times, and then a hundred more after that.
The woman didn’t give her name, didn’t explain a damn thing, just tossed out a time and place like I was some lapdog who’d come when called. Like I didn’t have a thousand other things to do. Like I wasn’t in the middle of trying to glue together the broken pieces of my own life.
But even as I sat in front of one of my clients—a frantic middle-aged man convinced his daughter had run off with some greasy wannabe rockstar—I could feel it.
That itch.
Like something crawling beneath my skin. Every tick of the clock on the office wall was louder than the last, pounding in my head like a warning. Or maybe a dare.
I nodded along to the man’s sob story, took the photos he handed me, promised to start the search in the morning—but the second he walked out of my office?
I was checking the time.
2:24PM.
Fuck me.
I rubbed a hand down my face, sat back in my chair, and stared at the ceiling like maybe the answer would fall from the cracked tiles.
“She’s probably full of shit,” I muttered out loud, trying to convince myself. “Probably just some rich bitch playing detective. Probably wants me to track down her cheating ex or some lost cat or some—”
I sighed. Long. Deep. Resigned.
By 2:42PM, I was already in my car.
Ray Maya wasn’t far. Just past the docks, tucked between a bait shop and an abandoned surf shack. A hole-in-the-wall kind of place, barely more than four walls and an espresso machine, but I’d been there once or twice before. Quiet. Discreet. The kind of place you go when you don’t want to be noticed.
I parked across the street and sat there a minute, engine idling.
Still telling myself I didn’t care.
Still pretending I wasn’t curious.
Still lying through my fucking teeth.
2:57PM.
I killed the engine, stepped out of the car, and crossed the street.
Inside, the place was dim. Warm lights, soft jazz, the kind of moody ambiance people associate with noir novels and second chances. There were only three other people seated—an older couple in the far booth, and a guy in a beanie who looked like he lived off cappuccinos and existential dread.
I took a seat in the corner. Back to the wall. Clear view of the entrance.
Habit.
A waitress wandered over, notepad in hand, her smile as warm as the coffee she poured.
“Waiting for someone?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I muttered. “But water’s fine for now.”
She nodded, smile never slipping. “You got it.”
She brought the water over a moment later and left me to my silence. I sat there, fingers drumming lightly against the tabletop, eyes flicking toward every person who came through the door.
3:04PM. Late. Not by much. But late all the same.
And yet, I waited.
I told myself I’d give her ten minutes.
Ten became fifteen. Then twenty. Then forty.
Still, no one walked in who looked like they belonged to that voice.
4:10 PM.
The waitress came by again. “Still want just the water?”
I exhaled sharply, then nodded toward the counter. “Coffee. Black.”
She brought it without a word, probably sensing my mood. I wrapped my hands around the mug, letting the heat ground me. I was pissed. I didn’t know at who—her, myself, the damn universe—but the frustration was building like a storm behind my ribs.
5PM.
Still no sign.
I should’ve left.
I should’ve walked out an hour ago. Hell, I shouldn’t have come at all.
But something about her voice stuck with me—cool, collected, with a razor edge I hadn’t heard in years. The kind of woman who didn’t ask. The kind who gave orders like she had bodies to back her up.
So I stayed.
Watched the sun start its slow descent over the pier through the dusty window. People came and went. The older couple left. The guy in the beanie ordered a second muffin and buried himself in his laptop.
But no woman.
No voice.
Just me, sitting there like a goddamn idiot.
6:22PM.
I was still nursing the dregs of my second cup when the waitress passed again.
“She stand you up?” she asked gently, voice full of sympathy.
I forced a laugh, more of a grunt. “Looks like it.”
“Well, her loss.”
I nodded, muttered a thank you, and watched her go.
6:45PM.
I’d had enough.
I stood, slapped some cash on the table, and made for the door. My knuckles were tight, curled into fists at my sides. I wasn’t mad at being stood up—I was mad that I’d let myself be fooled. That I’d wasted an entire damn afternoon for a woman I didn’t know, a name that meant nothing, a mystery I should’ve tossed in the trash the second she called.
But I didn’t.
And now I’d wasted the whole day.
I stepped outside. The breeze hit my face, cool and crisp, cutting through the heat simmering under my skin.
I crossed the street to my car, keys already in hand.
7:02PM.
I was reaching for the door handle when my phone rang.
Sharp. Sudden. Loud against the hush of twilight.
I glanced at the screen.
Unknown Number.
My heart skipped.
Then stuttered again when I picked up.
I didn’t even say hello.
Her voice came through the line, smooth as silk and sharp as a goddamn blade.
“You passed.”
I froze. Not a word left me. Not a breath.
“I needed to know if you were patient,” she continued. “If you could wait without losing your cool. If you’d obey without promise of reward.”
My jaw clenched.
“I don’t obey,” I muttered.
“You waited, didn’t you?” she shot back. “That’s all I needed to know.”
My pulse was hammering now, the blood in my ears louder than her voice.
“What the hell kind of game are you playing?” I demanded.
But she wasn’t rattled. Not even a little.
“You can handle the case,” she said simply. “You’re exactly the kind of bastard I need.”
“What case?” I snapped. “You haven’t told me a goddamn thing.”
“You’ll know when it’s time.”
The line went silent for a second. I thought she’d hung up. But then, her voice returned.
Cool. Confident.
And far too close.
“Nice shirt, by the way.”
I stiffened.
Slowly, I turned in a circle, eyes scanning the street, the windows, the alley across the road.
Nothing.
No sign of her. No hint of where the voice was coming from. But she’d been watching me. Watching me wait. Watching me walk out. Watching me now.
The call ended before I could say another word.
Just silence.
Dead air.
And me, standing in the middle of the street, alone with the chill working its way down my spine.
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