When Maude went to sleep there wasn’t a chair on her lawn. But it was there when she pushed back the curtains hung above her kitchen sink.

“Well, shit.”

Her aged long-haired, short-whiskered orange tabby looked at her and yawned before going back to sleep. Clearly he would be no help and shouting expletives would only annoy him.

Maude brooded as she waited for the kettle to boil. If she had been outside, her head would have been shrouded with miniature rain clouds. Inside she simply fogged up the windows with her worry. To anyone outside this part of the valley, a chair wouldn’t mean anything except perhaps a delivery mix-up easily fixed with a call.

Not here.

A red chair meant trouble. Sure, it looked comfy enough to sit in, but that would indelibly mark her for death. As of now, she had a fright and a fighting chance. And Maude was a fighter. Ain’t no one going to prove her otherwise.