Excerpt:

It all started with a cat. Your average domestic, short-haired cat. It was all black, except for four white paws and a perfect oval spot right between its eyes. It had a crook in its tail that made it stick up at odd angles and a shiny coat that seemed to absorb all the light around it.
It wasn’t in anyway a peculiar sight to see a cat. People see them all the time, but usually they were seen basking in the sun, preening on a window sill or stalking the neighbourhood rodents. This cat, however, was doing neither of these things. It was clear by a simple glance that this was no ordinary feline.
For starters, it currently sat, still as a statue, on the roof of number twenty-three Esterberry Drive. A house that would normally have nothing to do with cats or any animal for that matter. Secondly, it had been there, unmoving, for quite a number of days.
Occasionally it would get up, stretch and strut about, or steal the morning paper and thumb through the headlines, but it would always return to the exact spot - seven shingles to the east and three shingles south of the chimney - and continue staring down at the street below. It was waiting.
Exactly what it was waiting for was uncertain. No one really paid it much mind. They’d just go about their business, oblivious to its existence, while the cat silently watched from above.
Ms. Morgansten, the occupant of number twenty-three was a wiry woman who’s self indulgence and lack of humour bordered on being an incurable disease. She was well aware of its being there however and she hated animals. Especially cats. She certainly would not stand to have one perched on her roof and aimed a few good shoes in its direction. Fortunately for the cat, Ms. Morgansten hadn’t the arm for long distance shoe chucking and her feeble attempts barely brushed the eaves.
The cat chuckled at the peculiar woman and cleaned its left paw.