My tabby stretched his lean body along mine, burying his claws into my thigh before he casually slunk into a comfortable resting position. His green eyes watched me in that unnerving way cats had, as if I were a mouse he wanted to stalk, catch, and eat. Although I was mildly allergic to cats—especially mine, particularly when he chose to sleep on my face rather than next to it—I’d decided to keep him because on the lonely nights he kept my cold, empty bed warm and occupied. He was good company when I had none, which was most of the time—the exception being when I’d snag a boy toy, bang his brains out, and kick him to the curb. Stormy, my purring companion, was worth the puffy eyes and stuffed nose he gave me.

Of course Tony helped convince me to keep the one animal I was allergic to. Stormy was the last remnant of our soured marriage, so I put up with the clawed furniture and watery eyes so that I could cling to the good memories. And fantasize that Tony would come back someday—for both of us.

I’d named the cat Stormy the day Tony found him, a tiny month-old ball of gray fluff, the size of my palm. He’d been hiding under a bush in the middle of a summer downpour, with no mamma or siblings in sight. Tony had tried to catch him, but the kitten was skittish and quick like the lightning flashing above him. When a boom of thunder sent him into my arms, however, I carried him inside my “no pets allowed” apartment and it was love at first purr. I’d never gotten around to telling my landlord about him, and I had no plans to. I was an act first, ask for permission later kind of gal. It had worked for me . . . until now.

Until Grant.

It always kept coming back to Grant.

“Sorry, I gotta get up, boy.”

Nudging Stormy to the side of the bed, I checked the clock. Three ten. Enough was enough. I rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom where a little orange bottle promised me relief. I dropped one more pill into my hand and tossed it to the back of my throat, then gulped a mouthful of water from the faucet. I’d be wrecked for the next few hours, but at least it was better than this carousel of thoughts.

On my way back to the bedroom a flutter of paper in the hallway caught my attention. I picked up the folded paper, not recognizing it. I opened it, finding four simple blood-curdling words scribbled across the page:

Watch your back, bitch.