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at risk. Would she sacrifice our friendship, go to Wallace, if she thought it would save my life?
    She would.
    The ball got stuck in a crevice. I scooted my butt over to it and tossed it high up in the air. Pele leaped three feet up, the way servals snag flushed birds in African grasslands. He smacked it a good one with a forepaw, knocking the ball hard into the glass. It rebounded and hit him in the face, scaring the daylights out of him. I held still until he got his nerves under control and his dignity back.
    Rick had died dumb, a stupid, clumsy, unprofessional accident. Professionals didn’t hide behind lies and silence.
    I gathered up the ball and climbed out of the exhibit. Spot and Pele watched me, side by side, probably wondering where breakfast was.
    “Thanks, guys,” I told them sadly and shut the exhibit door. I put the ball away in the kitchen and walked to the service door and out.
    One chance left.
    He was sitting sideways to me at his desk, belly up against the keyboard tray, blue denim shirt straining at the snaps, poking at the keyboard with two index fingers. His face turned wary. “Oakley? What do you need?”
    “Mr. Wallace, did you open the cat door and let Rajah out into the exhibit yesterday morning?” I looked for alarm or evasion.
    “Of course not. I got better things to do than your work.” His eyes narrowed. “So what happened yesterday?”
    “That’s what I’m trying to find out. I think somebody let Raj out.”
    “And where were you?”
    On break? Visiting Primates? In the bathroom? “In the yard.”
    “What happened?” His full attention focused on me, boring holes in my heart and stomach.
    “Raj chased me back out. I wasn’t hurt, just skinned my knee. He didn’t get out.”
    “And that’s why you went home sick.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “You didn’t report the accident immediately. That’s grounds for disciplinary action.”
    “I’m reporting it now. I think someone might have opened the cat door. I think I heard it while I was in the yard.” Wrong, wrong. I shouldn’t have said “might have.”
    “Or else you forgot to check and went out there with the door still open.”
    Honesty was a lousy policy.
    The thick pads of his fingers tapped on the desk. “Look, you got special circumstances, with Rick and all. I never should of let you go back to cats, so maybe this was my fault too. I’ll forget about the warning in your file—this time. You let me know anything at all happens, any kind of accident at all, hear?”
    I heard.
    He picked a piece of paper off his desk and studied it. “You work Primates today and tomorrow. Linda does cats. You get Saturday and Sunday off, then you move to Birds under Calvin Lorenz mostly and Primates under Kip Harrison when they need extra help.”
    I opened my mouth to argue. Or beg.
    “Get to work,” he ordered. “And be damn glad you’re still alive.”
    Defeated, I walked out and slunk toward Primates.
    Chapter Six
    A day scrubbing walls inside monkey exhibits added aching muscles to my sore spirit. Kip Harrison, the senior primate keeper, was delighted not to have to do it herself. It was mindless, wearying toil, about all I was good for.
    Somehow word was out about my encounter with Rajah, judging by the glances and silences. No one came forward, embarrassed and apologetic, to confess they had let Raj out. Instead people treated me with uneasy thoughtfulness, as though a harsh word might send me into a psychotic episode where I’d hang myself with a hose. I could hardly wait for the weekend.
    That evening, Marcie called as I sat huddled on the sofa in my robe and soon extracted the whole story about Raj evicting me and the consequences. She eventually collected herself enough to say, “Iris, I appreciate that you add spice to my dull little life, but this is excessive. I’d really prefer you stay alive.” I pictured her hand flying up in alarm, the other white-knuckled on the phone.
    She decided that