If I got down off that refrigerator, I thought, I would never know, because the Beast would tear me to bloody shreds before I got to my purse.

The dog snoozed, snoring like a dull buzz saw.

I considered getting down, grabbing my bag and making a dive for the back door, but it was just a fantasy to pass the time. I didn’t have a chance in hell of actually making it.

I cupped my chin in one hand and waited.

The dog woke up, snuffled around in the fridge for a while, since the door was still hanging open, and helped himself to a package of bologna. Devoured it in three bites—wrapper, UPC code and all.

I tried to communicate with Jolie by telepathy. I’d never done it before, but I didn’t have much to lose, and the rest of my lifespan to gain.

Nothing happened, of course.

I could muster a dead ex and a ghost cat.

I could make a slot machine pay, if the energy was right.

Evidently, that was the extent of my psychic power.

White Fang dozed again, busy digesting the lunch meat and the plastic, and I got the bright idea to lean over, pull something out of the freezer compartment, and throw it across the room. While he was gnawing at a rock-hard pot roast, I’d make a break for it.

I leaned.

He sprang.

I felt his hot breath against my forearm as I jerked back, just in time to avoid the fate I’d planned for the pot roast.

I yelled for help. As I said, it was a day for afterthoughts.

No response.

Everybody in Jolie’s building, it seemed, had a real job.

I decided to examine the contents of the cupboards on either side of the refrigerator. Maybe I could bean the dog with a soup can and book it before he regained consciousness.

I found two boxes of outdated cereal, a package of stale crackers and the owner’s manual for the microwave. I read it from cover to cover. Taught myself rudimentary Dutch, French, Spanish and Japanese by comparing the translation paragraphs to the English version. I figured I was a cinch for a bright future in appliance repair when, at long last, Jolie appeared in the back door window, shoving her key in the lock.

The Hound of Tucson rolled to his feet, yawned and gave a welcoming whimper.

Jolie paused to pet him, and her dark eyes danced as she looked up at me, perched on the top of her refrigerator. “I see you made yourself at home,” she said, plunking her briefcase and purse on the counter next to the door. She’d had a weave since I saw her last, and she looked sleekly professional in her tailored black slacks and crisp white blouse. No blood, gore or bone dust in evidence. The wonder of lab coats.