I said thank you, then hung up. Multiple guests, prospective buyers requesting tours. Any of them would serve as adequate coverage for the Rose Killer. Requesting my specific condo a second time would’ve drawn suspicion; whereas, requesting to visit an apartment, say, one floor above mine, just a quick stairwell hike away, would work just as well. Or going on a tour . . . Can I have a moment alone, maybe walk around the building? I’d just like to get a feel for the place. Then make a quiet sprint for my condo.

I should call Detective D. D. Warren. Take her up on her offer of police protection.

Instead, I pushed the door and let it fall open into the dark, hushed space.

“Honey,” I called out, barely a warble in my voice, “I’m home.”

I snapped on the main light, illuminating the broad sweep of living space. The front door of my apartment opened into a tiled foyer, kitchen to the left, open door to the master bedroom straight ahead, family room to the right. My low-slung black leather sofa appeared the same as always, not a single accent pillow out of place.

I stepped into my condo, left hand on my purse strap, right hand still clutching my cell phone.

The Rose Killer attacked sleeping women, or a cancer-ravaged elderly woman. No direct confrontation but a game of finesse. Watching and scheming behind the victim’s back. Then, the final ambush, armed with chloroform.

Well, I wasn’t asleep. I wasn’t elderly. And I’d be damned before I let some murderer scare me out of my own home. I’d been born into a family of worse predators, and I knew it.

Snapping on more lights. Moving toward the kitchen with my back to the wall and my gaze on open territory. Nothing appeared amiss. My sleek furniture, modern décor, offering the same upscale comfort as before.

I should get a weapon. Maybe retrieve a baseball bat or a golf club from my hall closet, except being a woman who’d spent her life avoiding athletics, I didn’t have either one. I could grab a knife from the kitchen. The proverbial butcher’s blade to carry around like the plucky heroine in some horror movie. Only I didn’t trust myself with knives. It would be too easy to cut myself and never know it.

Like the three cat scratches I now bore on my wrist, after it had been nice to sit with a cat on my lap for a change. The soothing hum of its purr. The soft feel of its fur. I’d actually enjoyed the moment, even thought maybe I should get a kitten.

Right up till I walked outside and D.D. announced I was bleeding.

A cat, for God’s sake. All these years later, I still couldn’t even trust the comfort of a goddamn kitty.