Chaos on CatNet by Naomi Kritzer (detective books to read TXT) 📕

I throw away the rest of my sandwich and head outside. A beat later, I hear voices and footsteps behind me. Are they following me? They can’t be following me, this is paranoia from being raised by a paranoid person, I did get a tracker planted on me earlier … Any attempt to think through this rationally is wiped by another blast of frigid wind. The wind feels like someone is sandpapering my face with ground glass.

Downtown is full of flashing lights and barricades, and I can’t decide if I’m more worried about the people following me—if they’re following me—or the police. The fact that my hotel is on the wrong side of the barricade ends up making the decision for me—I can’t face the prospect of going all the way around. I approach the barricade and show one of the uniformed people at the edge my hotel key. “I’ll get you back to your hotel,” he says, and escorts me to the other side. This one has a patch on his coat saying Mobile Crisis Response, and I realize as we walk that he’s not carrying a gun. “What’s going on?” I ask him.

“We’re really not sure,” he says. “Trying to figure that out. You probably don’t want to be out in it. Get back inside and hunker down, okay? Also…” He hands me another voucher for a free coat. “You really should have something warmer.”

Back in the hotel, I hurry up to my room, hoping that my mother is still downstairs eating dinner and I can avoid any questions about my expedition outside. I don’t run into her in the elevator; the room is empty when I arrive. I take a scalding shower, hoping to warm up, and then get into my pajamas and into bed. Mom still isn’t back.

I pick up my phone, trying to figure out what I can text her that won’t send her into even more of a panic than she was earlier. Please reassure me that you haven’t been kidnapped by anyone definitely isn’t it.

I try, If I go to bed, should I turn off the lights or leave them on for you?

No response.

Well, if she’s using the treadmill or the pool or something …

The light’s on, but I don’t really want to get back out from under the covers because I’m still actually kind of cold.

“CheshireCat,” I say, “where’s my mom?”

“Her phone is in the hotel,” CheshireCat says.

“Has she used it in the last hour or two?”

“She was using it to text a half hour ago.”

That’s reassuring. I decide I don’t need to go look for her.

I wake, abruptly, hours later; it’s 2:00 a.m., the room light is still on, and my mother still isn’t here.

“CheshireCat,” I say. “Where’s Mom?”

“Her phone appears to still be in the hotel.”

“Where? You need to lead me to it.” I leap out of bed and start putting my clothes on. I try calling her; it goes straight to voice mail. I try a text, but I don’t even really expect a response. I jam my key card into my back pocket and step out to the hallway.

At 2:00 a.m., the hotel is as brightly lit as ever; the heavy silence is broken abruptly when the elevator opens and two giggly drunk women get off. One shrieks, “We’re here!” and her friend shushes her aggressively.

“The restaurant is down next to the lobby,” CheshireCat says.

“Is she still there?” I ask. The restaurant and bar are dark and silent, but the space is still open, so I walk through—did she drop her phone? I don’t see it. I ask CheshireCat, who says they’re trying to get a fix on the phone’s location.

There’s a night desk clerk, so I go over to ask if he’s seen my mother. “I was expecting her back in our room by now,” I say. “I’m just wondering if you saw her in the bar? Or if you saw her leave?” I have a picture of her on my phone—this still weirds me out, given that for most of my life pictures were completely forbidden—and I pull it up to show him.

He shakes his head. “I only came on at midnight. There were some people in the bar, but I don’t remember seeing your mother. I might not have noticed her, though. It closed at one.”

“Do you have any phones in the lost and found?”

They do, of course, but none that ring when I dial my mother’s number. “Thanks,” I say, and sit down for a second in one of the lobby chairs, feeling utterly lost. Do I call the police? Would normal people call the police for something like this? Is there anyone else I can call? Rachel is two and a half hours away; she’s also surely asleep. The only person likely to be in the Clowder this time of night is CheshireCat, anyway.

I stand up to go upstairs when CheshireCat says, “The phone location lines up with where she parked the van.”

“I thought you said she was in the hotel.”

“It’s very close.”

The parking garage is around the corner from the front of the hotel and across the street. “Was it there earlier? I mean when I asked hours ago?”

“No.”

CheshireCat has mentioned that locations are sometimes approximate. I look out the hotel’s front door for flashing lights, rioting, and so on. Nothing—either the Mischief Elves went home, or the barricade I crossed earlier is keeping them out of this part of downtown.

The parking garage is close but unheated; I’m definitely going to want my coat. “Where are you going?” CheshireCat asks.

“Back to the room to get my coat,” I say.

“That makes sense,” they say.

Upstairs, I remember my trip outside earlier. I can’t replace my thin coat, but I check my mom’s bag, and there’s an extra wool sweater inside. My own bag had a change of clothes for tomorrow, and my shirt will be another extra layer, so I go to dig that out and see a leaf of paper from the