. CHAPTER 3 — The Red Ribbon
The mall manager arrived wearing a navy suit and the tired expression of a man who feared bad publicity more than injustice. His name badge read MARTIN HALE. He listened to Vivienne Cross for exactly twenty seconds before deciding what kind of problem Lily was.
A poor child.
That made the case simple.
“Miss Cross is a valued tenant,” Martin said. “Her boutique is one of our premium partners.”
Lily wiped her face with the back of her hand. “But he came from outside.”
Vivienne laughed. “Outside? This is a controlled property. You expect us to believe a designer kitten wandered into a trash area?”
“He’s not designer,” Lily said softly. “He’s just little.”
Something in that answer made the crowd go quiet.
A woman near the fountain lowered her phone. An older man in a baseball cap frowned. The young security guard, whose name was Andre, glanced at the kitten. Pumpkin’s tail curled nervously, and his paws kept reaching toward Lily.
Vivienne noticed and shifted him away.
“You see?” Lily pleaded. “He knows me.”
“He’s frightened because you abused him,” Vivienne shot back.
Lily’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. For the first time, she looked truly scared—not of losing the argument, but of losing the kitten to someone cruel enough to lie about pain.
Andre stepped closer. “Ma’am, maybe we should scan for a microchip.”
Vivienne snapped her eyes toward him. “Do you work security or customer service?”
Andre stiffened. “I work safety.”
That line changed the air.
Martin Hale cleared his throat. “There is a pet supply store on the lower level. They may have a scanner.”
Vivienne’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Fine. Scan him. You’ll find he belongs to me.”
But as they began walking, Pumpkin struggled so hard that one of Vivienne’s bracelets caught the red ribbon around his neck. The ribbon slipped free and fluttered to the marble floor.
Lily gasped and reached for it.
Vivienne tried to step on it first.
Andre saw her. So did half the crowd.
The guard picked up the ribbon before Vivienne’s heel could crush it. Tied to the ribbon was a tiny metal tag, almost hidden in the frayed knot. It did not say Copper. It did not say Cross.
It read: S.C.P. FOSTER 17.
Andre held it up. “What does S.C.P. stand for?”
A volunteer in a blue shirt pushed through the crowd.
May you like
“Second Chance Paws,” she said.
Vivienne’s face turned the color of paper.
