The rounds took forty minutes and she found nothing – no signs of a break-in, no blood and, thank god, no body. When Linda got back to the kitchen, the cat was curled smugly on the formica table and the finger was gone. She shooed him onto the floor and checked to see if she could find it anywhere. Harry licked his whiskers and settled in front of the boiler. Linda flopped into the chair, feeling a mixture of relief and unease. She cringed at the thought of reporting it to the police. To Shuggie. He had always thought she was batty. ‘Linda Loser,’ he’d taunted her at school, raising his thumb and forefinger to his forehead when she’d crowded the hallway to find out her results. She’d got three exams. But you needed maybe six or seven to do anything worthwhile. Everyone knew that. Shuggie’d
