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"You say that now. Wait until Sir Pounce throws up on your shoes."
He studies me, then nods. "All right. But call when you're inside."
"Yes, Daddy."
His eyebrows rise, and I nearly swallow my tongue. "That came out wrong."
"Did it?"
"Don't you dare."
He grins and kisses me again before opening the car door. Rocco drops me outside the bookstore as planned, and I walk home smiling, thinking it's time to let him see the ridiculous little life I've built.
I'm still thinking about it when I reach my building and climb the stairs. I dig for my keys, already picturing Darcy's indignant face on the other side of the door, and reach for the lock.
The door shifts beneath my fingers. I stop. I know I locked it when I left. I always do, checking the deadbolt before I walk away. But the handle turns without resistance, and when I push gently, the door swings inward into the dark apartment.
Something cold settles in my stomach. Because somebody has opened my door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BRIDGET
There's a particular kind of fear that comes from knowing something is wrong in your own home.
It's not like watching a scary movie or hearing a strange noise outside your window. Those things are easy enough to explain away, especially when you own five cats who enjoy knocking shit off shelves at three in the morning.
But I'm standing in the doorway of my apartment, and I know damn well I locked this door. I've lived alone long enough to develop certain habits, and checking the deadbolt is right up there with making sure the stove is off and counting my cats before I leave.
"Hello?" I call, pushing the door open enough to let the hallway light spill across my living room.
My battered couch is where I left it, books are stacked on the coffee table, and Murder Mittens' favorite cardboard box is sitting beside the television. Everything looks normal, except there's something missing.
My cats.
Normally, Darcy is waiting before I've even put my key in the lock, with Sir Pounce waddling along behind him like a furry little drunk who heard somebody opening a can of beer. Tonight, there's nothing. No meowing, no paws racing across the floor, not even Murder Mittens trying to murder my ankles.
"Darcy? Babies?"
I step inside, immediately noticing a faint floral perfume beneath the familiar vanilla scent of my apartment. It doesn't belong here. Neither does the uneasy feeling crawling up my spine.
"Mrs. Patterson?" I call, thinking perhaps my neighbor came over to check on the cats and forgot to lock up. "Is that you?"
A soft thump comes from the direction of my bedroom. I reach toward the light switch, but another noise follows, something scraping across the floor. My hand freezes.
Every sensible thought in my head tells me to turn around, get the hell out, and call the police. I'm even backing toward the door when I hear a frightened meow somewhere down the hallway.
Oh, God. My babies.
I know I should leave, but what if somebody's hurting them? The door swings nearly shut behind me as I move toward the kitchen, and I hear another sound coming from the darkness.
"Who's there?" My voice shakes despite my best efforts. "Listen, I don't know who you are, but you need to get the hell out of my apartment."
Nobody answers.
I grab my phone from my purse, intending to call 911, but movement near the bedroom makes me look up. Something shifts in the hallway, and suddenly I'm terrified of standing in the light where whoever's hiding can see me.
Panic sends me toward the kitchen counter. My fingers find the knife block beside the stove, and I pull out the largest knife I own. My phone slips from my hand and lands on the floor near the counter.
