I’m sitting in the living room watching Pandora scroll through her phone while pretending to watch TV with me. You know that thing people do where they’re technically sitting beside you but mentally they’re on another planet? That’s what she’s doing. Every now and then I say something and get one-word answers like “mm-hmm” or “yeah,” which technically counts as participating in a conversation, but only in the same way that putting ketchup on bread technically counts as a sandwich. John Mercer is in his room, probably studying or doing whatever it is John does when he disappears for hours at a time. Mr. Whiskers is stretched out on the windowsill looking completely relaxed, like he pays rent around here. Everything should feel normal. And yet, something feels off.
The first thing I noticed was Pandora looking out the window toward Mrs. Jenkins’ garden shed. Not staring exactly. Just a quick glance. Barely noticeable. The kind of thing nobody would think twice about. I didn’t think much of it either. People look out windows all the time. Then about thirty seconds later she did it again. Same direction. Same quick look. And suddenly I found myself sitting there wondering why someone glances at a shed twice. Once is normal. Twice means your brain made a return trip. Nobody checks a shed twice unless there’s a reason.
Now, before you say I’m overthinking this, I want to point out that I wasn’t immediately suspicious. I tried to be reasonable. Maybe she was checking the weather. Maybe she saw a bird. Maybe Mrs. Jenkins was outside gardening. There are plenty of perfectly normal explanations. But then Mrs. Jenkins walked by a few minutes later carrying a watering can and gave me one of those little neighbor waves people do when they aren’t close enough to justify an actual conversation. Then she disappeared behind the shed. Behind it. Not into it. Behind it. Why would anyone go behind a shed? Sheds have doors in the front. The whole point of a shed is front access. Nobody needs to be behind a shed unless they’re hiding something or participating in activities that require unnecessary secrecy.
At first I tried to ignore it. I really did. But once the thought got into my head, I couldn’t stop watching. Pandora looked down at her phone. Then toward the shed. Then back to her phone. I looked at the shed. Then at Pandora. Then back at the shed. Then at Pandora again. About then Mr. Whiskers lifted his head and looked outside too. I froze. Slowly I turned toward him. He looked at me. Then toward the shed. Then back at me.
Now I’m not saying Mr. Whiskers knows something. But I’m also not saying he doesn’t know something.
Because here’s the thing nobody talks about enough: cats observe everything. They act lazy, but I think that’s just strategy. You never see cats rushing around trying to explain themselves. They sit quietly and collect information. Last week I walked into the room and caught Mr. Whiskers staring at Pandora’s laptop screen like he was reviewing classified intelligence. The second I entered, he casually looked away. At the time I thought nothing of it. But now? Now I’m starting to revisit a few things.
Then Pandora glanced toward the shed a third time.
Third time.
That changed everything.
Because two times can still be coincidence. Three times means pattern. Scientists probably agree with that. I looked over at John Mercer’s closed bedroom door. Suddenly I realized he’d been spending more time in his room lately too. Not dramatically more. Just enough more where you notice it after thinking about it for ten minutes. And now I’m wondering if he knows something. What if Pandora told him something? What if Mrs. Jenkins told Pandora something? What if Mr. Whiskers overheard all of it weeks ago and has been trying to warn me?
My brain started connecting dots whether I wanted it to or not. Pandora acting distracted. Mrs. Jenkins disappearing behind the shed. John hiding in his room. Mr. Whiskers observing everyone. Suddenly every tiny thing from the past week started replaying in my head like evidence in a crime documentary. The weird pauses in conversations. The distracted looks. The mysterious behavior.
Then it hit me.
I looked down at Mr. Whiskers.
He looked up at me.
Slow blink.
Slow blink.
Oh my God.
Mr. Whiskers wasn’t watching the shed.
Mr. Whiskers was watching Pandora watching the shed.
I sat there staring into space as the whole thing finally came together. This wasn’t about gardening. This wasn’t about Mrs. Jenkins. This wasn’t even about the shed.
This was surveillance.
Pandora looked over at me. “Hal,” she said, “why are you staring at the cat?”
I looked at her.
Then at the shed.
Then at Mr. Whiskers.
Then back at her.
“…Nice try.”