Hand raised to knock on the door to Mason’s room, Tony noticed that both the upper panels had been patched. In the dim light of the second floor hall, the patches were all but invisible but up close he could see the faint difference in the color of the stain. There was something familiar about their shape but he couldn’t . . .

Hand still raised, he jumped back as the door jerked open.

Mason stared out at him, wide-eyed. “There’s something in my bathroom!”

“Something?” Tony asked, trying to see if both fangs were still in place.

“Something!”

“Okay.” About to suggest plumbing problems were way outside his job description and that he should go get Mr. Brummel, Tony changed his mind at Mason’s next words.

“It was crouched down between the shower and the toilet.”

“It?”

“I couldn’t see exactly, it was all shadows . . .”

Oh, crap. “Maybe I’d better go have a look.” Before Mason could protest—before he could change his mind and run screaming, he was crossing the bedroom, crossing the dressing room, and opening the bathroom door. The sunlight through the windows did nothing to improve the color scheme but it did chase away any and all shadows. Tony turned toward the toilet and the corner shower unit and frowned. He couldn’t figure out what the actor might have seen since there wasn’t room enough between them for . . .

Something.

Rocking in place.

Forward.

Back.

Hands clasped around knees, tear-stained face lifted to the light.

And nothing.

Just a space far too small for the bulky body that hadn’t quite been there.

Skin prickling between his shoulder blades, jar of black currant jam held in front of him like a shield, Tony took a step into the room. Shadows flickered across the rear wall, filling the six inches between toilet and shower with writhing shades of gray. Had that been all he’d seen?

Stupid question.

No.

So what now? Was he supposed to do something about it?

Whatever it was, the rocking and crying didn’t seem actively dangerous.

“Well, Foster?”

“Fuck!” He leaped forward and spun around. With his heart pounding so loudly he could hardly hear himself think, he gestured out the window at the cedar branches blowing across the glass and lied through his teeth. “There’s your shadow.”

Then the wind dropped again and the shadows disappeared.

Mason ran a hand up through his hair and glanced around the room. “Of course. Now you see them, now you don’t.” I wasn’t frightened, his tone added, as his chin rose. Don’t think for a moment I was. “You’re a little jumpy, aren’t you?”

“I didn’t hear you behind me.” Which was the truth because he hadn’t—although the admiring way he said it was pure actor manipulation. Working in Television, 101—keep the talent placated.

As expected, Mason preened. “Well, yes, I can move cat quiet when I want to.”