Was that what was wrong? Was I crazy? I remembered a psych prof in first year telling the class that if you could ask the question, then you weren’t. No, that wouldn’t make me look like a nutcase. How else was I going to get Hercules out? Then I thought, Oh, sure, call Detective Gordon and tell him my cat just walked through the door into the room. I shouldn’t have touched the door at all. “You’re nuts,” I said aloud, sitting back on my heels. I caught a bit of my reflection in the brass kick panel and realized what I was doing. Then I dropped to my knees and polished the bottom section of the door where I’d looked for some kind of hidden access panel. I used the hem of my T-shirt to rub the doorknob. Now my fingerprints were all over the door. I yanked my hand away from the door like it was suddenly on fire. The room was part of a murder investigation. There was silence and then a faint “meow” from the other side of the closed door.
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