The cat droops in her hands, looking defeated. Because apparently cats can look defeated.

“Anna one, Max zero!” She sets Max down, where he returns grudgingly to his raw steak.

“Sorry about that. He gets way too into his practical jokes. And he has a thing about blood.” She gestures at my shoulder. “You should let my gran look at that while you’re here.”

The cut stopped bleeding, but it still hurts. It’s from the same men who killed my parents. Liam managed to seriously injure one of them, and I hope it slows them down enough for him to catch up. He won’t let them get away with this.

“Right. I’ll do that,” I say a second before the rest of her words sink in. Cats don’t play practical jokes.

She regards me with that look again, making me feel out of place in my own skin. “No, you won’t.”

She’s right. I’ve dealt with enough injuries on my own before. Most of them came from my boxing lessons with Liam. We’ve stitched each other up more times than I can count since medical care got complicated in witness protection, but he insisted I needed to learn. He was right.

“Are you here for a room?” she asks.

I nod. “Are there any open?”

Her gaze flicks over my battered old bag, and my uncertainty rises again. What if they won’t rent to a fourteen-year-old who’s all alone? I can’t afford to go anywhere else, and this is where I’m supposed to meet Liam. I try to think of what he would say—he always has a quick word and a smile to answer everything. People like him, listen to him.

I, on the other hand, just stand there awkwardly until she smiles again and says, “Sure are. Just you?”

“Yeah. Actually, has someone checked in under the name Liam Pierce?”

“No Liams or Pierces,” she replies.

My stomach drops, but I rein in my disappointment and follow her into a huge room with high ceilings and stained-glass windows with designs of strange winged creatures. A wide center staircase that looks plucked straight from a fairy-tale ballroom looms ahead. With all the open space and natural light, the place feels alive, as if the paintings on the walls might suddenly move.

Then the door swings shut behind me.

“Oh, stop it,” Anna chastises without looking.

“That wasn’t me.”

“I know. I wasn’t talking to you.”

I glance around, but we’re alone except for a couple guests talking over by a bay window and Max, who waits for us by the stairs. He’s small and pure black with mischievous green eyes.

As we near, he pretends to lunge at me again, and I falter. Anna smirks. “Don’t worry. He’s just messing with you.”

“Messing with me?” I repeat. “He’s a cat.”

“And a darn convincing one too.”