From that day forward Max had not attended any of the group meetings—a relief—though for a few months after the breakup she had felt her insides churn before each session. Just the thought that he might appear had made her suffer from a cold sweat. What would she say to him? How awkward would it be? But thankfully, he’d never shown his face again. If he’d contacted any of the other members of the group, they’d kept it to themselves, though, of course, Tanisha wouldn’t have been able to keep the secret.

It seemed as if he’d moved on.

“You’re my guy now,” she said to the cat, and buried her nose in his soft fur. His head was lolling beside the base of her neck, his purring vibrating against her skin. She smiled to herself just as she felt him stiffen, his gentle little motor stopping suddenly.

“What?”

Agilely flipping in her arms, his claws digging into her robe, he stared over her shoulder.

“Hey, what’s the—”

“Sssss!” he hissed, showing his teeth, his eyes focused behind her on the bathroom window. She glanced in the mirror. In the reflection she saw her own worried face and the cat’s tense body. And something else. Movement? Oh, God. A face in the window beyond the screen?

For a second she froze, her eyes meeting another’s in the glass. Then she whirled around. St. Ives’s claws dug deeper. He launched himself to the floor and scrambled into the hallway.

She hit the light switch.

The bathroom went dark, the only slice of illumination through the open doorway from a lamp in the living area.

Pulse pounding in her throat, Brianna stared at the window.

She saw nothing in the shifting darkness.

The window was a black box.

Empty.

No menacing face appeared.

No eyes reflected the tiniest gleam of incandescence.

All your imagination.

Then what about the cat?

What had caused his reaction?

Even now, from the safety and shadows of the hallway, he was growling low in his throat, a warning.

Yet she saw no one. Nothing.

Just your imagination, brought on by St. Ives’s paranoia. He’s a cat. He might have sensed a raccoon scouring the garbage cans. Or a bat flying close to the window. Or nothing.

She let out her breath, half-convinced she was imagining things. It wasn’t as if the cat wasn’t skittish.

Her nerves still on edge, she closed the window and snapped the blinds shut. Then she walked through each room in the house, double-checking that every window was latched, every blind or curtain closed, every door locked and dead-bolted.

You’re acting like a crazy person.

“Too bad,” she said to herself, and quickly donned pajamas. After drinking a glass of water, she made a pot of herbal tea, then settled into bed with a cup of chamomile and her laptop.