“I have a prowler,” I told the 911 operator. I was establishing a relationship with those people; pretty soon, I’d be able to call and say, “The usual.”

I went back to the living room, still on the line with the dispatcher.

Heather was nowhere in sight, but Russell still cowered under the coffee table, and Nick stood with his arms folded.

“Behind the couch,” he said.

I’d barely registered that when Heather suddenly sprang up from her hiding place, vaulted over the sofa back and came at me. She touched down once on top of the coffee table and flew through the air like some screeching hawk snagging a mouse.

I yelped and dropped the receiver, prepared to defend myself. Everything shifted into a weird cinematic sequence, slow-mo. The background music was the blood thudding in my ears.

Smaller than I was, Heather nonetheless had momentum going for her. She hit me like a locomotive, and both of us went down. I struck the floor so hard that the wind rushed out of my lungs, and I couldn’t seem to take in even a shallow breath.

Heather straddled me.

We grappled. I made distracted plans to order The Damn Fool’s Guide to Physical Fitness, since Self-Defense for Women didn’t seem to be packing it.

She raised the scissors high; I saw light catch on the tips and tried to roll out of the way, but shock had turned every muscle in my body rigid. The brain gave orders, but the body didn’t respond.

“Nick,” I gasped out, “do something!”

The scissors began to descend.

I screamed.

Russell yowled.

And a blur of shrieking, hissing cat shot into my limited range of vision like a white meteor plunging to earth. Chester landed on the back of Heather’s neck, claws bared, fur standing out all over his body, eyes feral.

Heather screamed and flailed, dropping the scissors. Chester hung on, like some kind of feline demon.

I threw Heather off, rolled free, scrambled to my feet.

I could hear the 911 operator calling something from the discarded phone receiver.

“Chester,” I rasped, when I caught my breath. “Sit.”

“Sit?” Nick asked.

I picked the scissors up off the floor, threw them across the room, and pried my ghost cat off Heather’s back.

Chester was bristly as a porcupine, and he still had a lot of fight left in him.

Heather, who had fallen to her knees under the attack, got to her feet and fled. I stroked Chester’s back until he mellowed out. When I went to set him down, I saw that his coat was bloody.

I screamed.

Memories surged out of every dark closet, cupboard and cubbyhole in my mind. I must have passed out, or just put my brain on standby, and when I came to, Nick was gone. Chester was gone. And two cops were crouching on either side of my prone body, looking concerned.