“I know what you meant, Logan. Something’s gotta get done about this before tonight, right? You are playing, ain’tcha?”

“I want to, but I’m not sure how I can like this.”

“Well, no local sawbones is gonna be able to fix you up by kickoff time, that’s for sure.”

“No. I don’t think so.”

Mona drew off her cigarette. “Well, I haven’t waited all these years to see my beloved Jackrabbits’ best chance at a district championship end with the loss of a couple measly fangers, I can tell you that.”

Under different circumstances, Cole might have found the remark funny. He wasn’t laughing now.

Mona studied the wounds with a surgeon’s gaze, turning his hand over and over between her own arthritic fingers.

This was the closest Cole had ever been to the woman who had been his neighbor his entire life. Cole’s exchanges with her over the years had been limited to the occasional wave and kind word spoken across their property line. Otherwise she was as much an enigma to him as she was to the rest of the town. It was clear that she preferred her solitude. He knew that she had been a widow since before he was born, but he had never known her to entertain guests, gentleman callers or otherwise. And to his knowledge her only entry into any social setting was at the football games. Even then he knew her to always sit alone, watching the games from a distant vantage point in the stands.

She released his hand and went back to stroking Coodles, who now slept peacefully in her lap.

Savannah tugged the back of Cole’s shirt, prodding him to leave. Much as he wanted to go, he couldn’t. Not yet.

“Ms. Mona . . .” he said.

“Just Mona.”

“Mona … some things happened in front of my house this morning.”

“Come closer, my ears ain’t what they used to be.” She motioned for him to kneel beside her. “There, that’s better. Now, you were saying?”

“I was just saying that … before I was attacked this morning, one of your cats came . . .”

“You feed my cats sometimes, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. That’s why I feel sort of responsib—”

“Bologna, isn’t it? I’ve seen a few bologna sandwiches turn up on my porch here lately. I can’t stand the stuff, so I know they aren’t getting it from me.”

“I’m sorry. I know it isn’t my place.”

“It’s quite all right. I suppose I’m indebted to you.”

Cole shook his head. “No. You see . . .” He searched for the right words. “Somebody wanted to send me a message today.”

Mona chuckled. “I’ll say.”

“But it wasn’t just my hand that they hurt. See, one of your cats . . .”

“Coodles.”

“Right. Coodles. I read the name on her collar this morning.”

“His collar. Coodles is a boy.”