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Head still wobbly, she turns back toward me, and I lift it up over her cheekbones to reveal a slice across her eye that’s red and bloodshot, making her pupils wide and evil-looking.

Dropping the flashlight to the floor, I kick back away from her, watching her fall onto her shoulder.

“Please! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!”

Eyes squinting, I peer around the empty room where I found the girl. All that remains are scattered water stains on the wall, and that lingering scent of mold. My flashlight scans over the windows, still blackened by the cloth Carl used to block out the view, tattered and hardly clinging to the glass anymore.

I didn’t even know the girls name, or how she ended up in the cellar. All I knew at the time was how sadistic my uncle had become, and how his therapists had grossly underestimated his level of fucked-upness.

A thump overhead steels my muscles, and I set my hand on the gun at my hip, listening to what sounds like movement on the first floor. I make my way back up the staircase, stepping light to avoid any sounds. Flicking off the flashlight, I tuck it into my pocket and stalk down the hallway, letting my Glock lead the way.

Adrenaline moves through me in waves at the thought of coming face to face with Carl again. I’ve damn near fantasized about this moment.

Stopping at the closet door, I peek around the corner to the kitchen, which sits approximately above where I stood in the cellar.

Empty.

Something brushes against my leg, and I aim my gun to the floor, but steady myself when a black mass scampers behind me. I reach down and lift a small, black kitten from between my feet.

“Where’d you come from?” I mutter over its soft meowing. Thing looks like it hasn’t eaten in a few days with its bones poking through patchy black fur. No tag, or collar, or anything. I set it back down on the floor and shove my gun back into its holster, with the photo album still tucked beneath my arm.

A pinprick needles my shin as the cat claws up my trousers.

“Hey, hey.” I detach him from my pants to keep him from snagging the fabric, and the little bastard just meows back at me, as I dangle him in front of my face. “I don’t have any food for you. You’re gonna have to wait for the next sucker who walks through the door.”

I pause at my words. The next sucker could be a psychotic prick, and if that’s the case, hunger will be the least of this cat’s worries. Last time I picked up a stray and brought it home, the thing was sacrificed and skewered, with its eyeballs bobbing in a jar as a memento.

“All right, here’s the deal. I feed you. I bathe you. And tomorrow morning, I’m letting you go. Got it?”

The cat meows again, still dangling by its scruff.

“Fucking bleeding hearts.” I exit the house, suddenly remembering the Audi’s upholstery, and stare down at the cat. “You put one hole in my leather seats, cat, and I’ll put one hole in your head.”

8

Nola

Decked out in jammies, I’m flipping through TV Channels when headlights crawl up the driveway. On instinct, I peek out the window, catching the tail end of the Audi, as it makes it way toward the garage. It’s while settling back onto the couch that I notice the slight trembling of my muscles.

Gotta get used to this.

As usual, all the doors to the house are locked, and Oliver won’t be back until tomorrow morning, which is good, in case the guy decides to kill me in my sleep. At least my son won’t have to witness both parents’ deaths.

Ugh. The thought of that. Why did I do this? Why did I let a stranger into my home? Not technically in my home, but near enough to make me want to clutch that knife under my pillow tonight. What the hell was I thinking?

Money. Three thousand measly dollars that won’t mean a damn thing, if the guy decides to gut me open for fun. Speaking of which.

I sink into the couch, slapping a hand against my forehead, and groan. “I never collected rent!” Which officially makes me the worst landlord in the history of landlords. Shit. What if the guy’s a freeloader? Maybe that’s why he drives a fancy car. He can afford it by not paying rent!

Stupid. The guy didn’t do anything wrong. It was my fault for not asking for the money off the bat, but asking for anything is a problem for me, even if I’m legally permitted and expected to do so.

My phone rings with a number I don’t recognize, but I answer anyway. Music pounds through the phone, over the hum of chatter, like a party at the other end.

“Nola! Can you hear me?”

Hairs on the back of my neck stand at the sound of my name through a voice I can’t quite make out.

“It’s Bethany! Hang on! I’ll try to find somewhere a bit quieter!”