Serial Detective

Jack Morgan woke up early, as usual, to the percussive patter of fog droplets tapping against his cottage's tin roof. He padded barefoot across groaning floorboards, careful not to step on Sherlock, his portly orange tabby who sprawled shamelessly in the middle of every drafty hallway.

After a quick splash of cold water to the face and a haphazard comb through his peppery hair, Jack brewed himself the first of what would be many strong cups of coffee. He carried the steaming mug out to the front porch, where the world was still gray and heavy with morning mist, and settled into the ancient rocking chair that had come with the house.

The porch overlooked a tangle of wild roses and, just beyond, the dense redwood forest that ringed the town. The air tasted damp and faintly of tree sap. Sherlock materialized at his feet with a plaintive yowl, demanding a seat on his lap. Jack obliged, scratching the cat's ears in the practiced rhythm of a man who'd spent years learning how to read the nuances of feline mood.

He could sense that the mood was about to change.