“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.” He turned away from the painting and noticed the array of objects neatly lined up against the wall under the windows—a cat climbing tower with multiple shelves, a high-tech cat food dispenser, a stylish red litter box and an array of cat toys. All new. All unused.

“Looks like you’re serious about getting a cat,” he said.

“I thought I’d start with the cat stuff first. Make sure it feels right.”

“Good plan.” He took out his phone. “I’ll call Arganbright and tell him what’s going on. He can set up a security detail for us tonight.”

“All right,” Olivia said. She went into the kitchen and opened a cupboard. “I’ll get some sheets and a blanket.”

“Appreciate that.” He glanced at the jewel-blue sofa. “But I won’t be sleeping on that couch tonight.”

Olivia froze. “What?”

“I’ll take the floor. Your sofa is a work of art. I’m not going to risk getting it dirty.”

Olivia visibly relaxed. “A work of art.” She looked at the sofa. “Your choice.”

Now what had he said? Harlan was replaying his comment about not sleeping on the sofa and wondering why Olivia had looked momentarily alarmed when Victor Arganbright answered the phone.

“What’s going on?” Arganbright said.

Harlan told him. As he talked he took another look around the colorful living room and the cat stuff lined up against the wall. He could live in a place like this.

CHAPTER 9

Olivia did not expect to sleep, but at some point she finally dozed off.

The nightmare hit hard and fast.

 . . . She is in the shadows of the garage. The Speed Date Killer lunges toward her, a reptilian sheen in his eyes. He has a knife in one hand. The roll of duct tape and the syringe are on the concrete floor.

She suddenly knows what the camera can do. She tries to raise it so she can focus through it. But she can’t move. She is frozen. Trapped . . .

Panic flooded her veins, bringing her awake on a tide of terror. She managed, barely, to swallow a scream. Nightmare. You’ve been here before. It’s just a nightmare.

But it wasn’t a dream. The killer was there, in her bedroom, lunging toward her. He gripped the knife just as he had the night she had confronted him in the garage.

But now he was in her bedroom, coming at her.

She threw herself to the far side of the bed . . . and got hopelessly tangled up in the sheets and blanket. She struggled, but she knew she was doomed. She would not be able to escape, not this time.

The bedroom door slammed open. Harlan loomed, silhouetted against the glow of the night-light in the hall. He had his gun in one hand.