I wondered why Sheila hadn’t called. I’d been taking surreptitious glances at the clock all evening, and anxiety thrummed in my nerve endings. I caught a flash of white out of the corner of one eye and realized, with rising spirits, that Chester was back.

Greer didn’t notice, of course, but Russell waddled in from the kitchen, sniffing the air.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” I told Greer, because I didn’t want her in the parking lot alone. I didn’t want myself in the parking lot alone, for that matter, but what was I going to do? If anything happened to my sister, I’d never forgive myself.

“Nonsense,” she said. “Just stand on the landing and watch until I’m inside. As soon as I start the engine, the door will relock.”

I accompanied her as far as the top of the stairs, stood guard while she descended, key fob in hand. Behind me, inside the apartment, I heard Russell growl tentatively.

Greer got into her SUV, fired up the engine, flashed her lights and drove away.

Russell gave another growl, and I turned and went inside, careful to turn the dead bolt and put on the chain. When I stepped into the living room, I was startled to see the basset hound and the cat sitting face-to-face in the middle of the floor, smelling each other’s noses.

It took a moment for the implications to register. After all, I’d had a long and difficult day.

Russell could see Chester.

I wasn’t hallucinating.

I wasn’t losing it.

Chester raised a paw and batted playfully at Russell’s long nose. Russell backed up a few inches, without lifting his butt off the floor.

I did a little victory dance.

I was sane!

And the phone rang.

I raced for the kitchen extension, my heart thudding. It was after midnight and, let’s face it, the good news ratio goes way down by then.

I squinted at the caller ID panel; the reading was “no number available.”

“This is Mojo.”

Silence.

Oh, God. It was my brother again. Or Heather.

“I’m sorry to call so late,” Sheila apologized, sounding flustered and weary, both at once, “but you said—”

I was relieved, then worried again. “How’s Bert?”

Russell ambled in, with Chester traveling practically in lock-step beside him. They both sat down, like a pair of churchgoers wedged into a crowded pew, and watched me with consuming interest.

Sheila began to cry.

I closed my eyes, standing rigid in my bathrobe and bare feet, and waited for the ax to fall. Bert hadn’t made it. The knife had hit some vital organ. My palm sweated where I gripped the receiver. “Tell me, Sheila. Is Bert—?”

“He’s been in surgery all this time,” Sheila wept.

My knees almost gave out. “He’s alive?”