Crush raised his arm and motioned to Dez, who had a spot on a nearby building.

“You better come with us,” Crush said to the remainder of Baissier’s team.

One of the bears laughed. “What? Are you arresting us?”

Crush shrugged. “I don’t think there’s a point.”

“It was some kind of gas,” Cella explained while turning her back to the room. The device that had been triggered had released a gas that had not killed Baissier or her team easily, their twisted and tortured remains littering the floor. “As soon as they opened this door. It went off and took ’em out.”

“Dissipated quick, too,” Smith muttered, walking around the room and coldly examining everything.

“And Whitlan’s gone,” Crush noted again, his gaze locked on where this room led ... to a dock filled with lots of very fast and very expensive boats.

“Yeah, but he’s got us looking for him. And the feds.”

“And we have our own inside there. We’ll find him, Crush.”

“It better be quick. Whitlan enjoys killing our kind. He’s not going to lose his taste for that anytime soon.”

“So what do we do now?” one of Baissier’s men asked.

“Call whoever is next in command,” Crush told him. “Let him or her know about this.”

“The trophies,” Cella said. “We identify those we can, alert the families. The ones we can’t, we give a proper burial.”

Cella called in the cleanup team for assistance since they had to be done before the country club staff made it in for the morning shift. Knowing they were short on time, they all got to work.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

These days Cella didn’t have time to be as exhausted as she felt. Why? Because she was a goddamn bridesmaid. Why? Why did she say yes to being a bridesmaid? Even worse, a maid of honor!

She could be such an idiot.

Between the bachelorette party, the bridal shower, and the never-ending dress fittings, Cella was goddamn burnt out. But she was almost done. Almost.

So, running down the stairs, lifting the hem of her five-thousand-dollar dress—only for a friend would she spend that kind of cash on a stupid dress—Cella yelled out, “Let’s go, Malones! We’ve gotta get a move on!”

“Where’s the kid?” she asked her young cousins, busy getting dressed up for the day.

“In back,” one answered.

“All right. The cars will be here to pick you guys up soon. Do not keep the drivers waiting. And no whore makeup,” she added before running outside.

Meghan and Josie, already dressed, with minimal makeup, and ready to go, sat at one of the tables and ...

Eyes narrowing on her daughter and daughter-by-friendship, Cella demanded, “What is that?”

Meghan held the thing up, her grin wide. “It’s a kitty! Miss Smith brought it over for me and Josie while you were in the hospital.”

Cellastudied the black-and-white tabby carefully. A bright red collar with an annoying little bell that kept making this tinkling noise was around its neck and it smelled distinctly of ... well ... of bear sow.

Josie reached over and took the tabby from Meghan’s hands. What always amazed Cella about the pair of them was that they never fought over anything. They shared so easily. Cella would admit she didn’t know any felines who could do that.

“Isn’t she cute?” Josie asked, nuzzling her nose against the cat’s.

“It’s a cat. It’s a house cat.”

“And we’re keeping her,” Meghan told her mother, all haughty about it, too! “She was a gift to us and Grams said we can keep her. So we’re keeping her.”

“Whatever. But I’m not taking care of that thing while you’re off partying with frat boys.”

Her daughter shuddered in disgust. Knowing her kid, she’d spend her college years partying with the chess players’ club or with the geeks who design lasers before returning home for a hot cocoa at eight p.m.

Cella stepped close, scrunching her nose at the cat. “What are you going to name it?”

“It’s a she, and we’re naming her—”

“Mrs. Fuzzybottom!”

“No,” Meghan told Josie in no uncertain terms. “We will not give a cat a stupid name.”

While Josie pouted, Meghan thought a moment and finally offered, “Cleo?”

“Over my dead body,” Cella said quickly. “There will be no cliché cat names. No. Never.”

“Well, since you’re being so picky about it, She Who Will Not Take Care of This Thing, what would you suggest?”

The answer hit her so quickly, she was surprised she hadn’t thought of it before. “Do you know what a really nice gesture would be, girls? Naming the cat Dee-Ann.”

Josie grinned. “You mean in honor of Miss Smith?”

“It was her gift to you guys. I just think it would be a really sweet gesture.”

“I like it.” Josie stood, the cat in her arms. “I’m going to tell Mom. I’ll let her know you’re ready to go, Aunt C.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

Josie walked off to her house and Cella looked at her daughter. “What?”

“How do you live with yourself?”

“Very well,” she told her. “I find myself quite entertaining.”

It wasn’t nearly as painful as Crush thought it would be. He’d never been to a Jewish wedding ceremony held by cats before, so it was new and interesting for him. And now he was back at one of the Kingston Arms’ ballrooms for the reception. Although the ceremony was a little more serious, the couple wanted the reception to be a lot lighter and considering the dancing and laughing he walked in on, he could see they’d already achieved their goal.