Page 156 of Irreversible

Stunning, even.

My skin prickles with goosebumps. I wonder if he heard me over the heavy bass seeping out through the main door. Chewing on my lip, I take a cautious step forward.

I clear my throat, peering down at my sneakers before glancing back up. “I’m Bee. Do you?—”

He turns and stalks away.

I frown, rooted to the sidewalk, watching the shadows dance across his retreating back.

Okay then.

Forcing my frozen feet to move, I focus on the uneven cracks in the pavement to guide me away.

I glance back once, over my shoulder.

The man is gone. Vanished into the night.

My heart pounds harder as I quicken my pace, breaking into a jog until I turn the corner.

But he lingers.

Even after I’m tucked inside my apartment, reheating a plate of leftovers and withdrawing to my bedroom with a glass of red wine…

I can’t shake the feeling that those eyes followed me home.

38

Idrag myself through the front door of my apartment at six a.m. the following week, exhausted and bleary-eyed. My vision still sparks with multicolored strobes, and my feet ache from long nights prancing around onstage in stupidly high heels.

Sighing with burnout, I reach down to unbuckle my bejeweled stilettos. I’m mid-bend when I catch a black lump in my periphery, perched on my countertop, causing me to jolt to an upright position and whip my head to the right.

There’s a cat in my kitchen.

Staring at me.

I stare back, offering two slow blinks.

Mrrooww.

The animal looks far less lost than I am.

Also…I don’t have a cat.

“How did you get in here?” I ask like I’m expecting an answer.

Anxiety is a constant companion at home, keeping me awake most nights with a kitchen knife tucked under my pillow, bracing for the imagined sound of armed intruders, burglars, or serial killers breaking through the door. I was taken fromthe one place meant to feel safe, leaving it more exposed and vulnerable than anywhere else.

Surprisingly, feline break-ins never crossed my mind.

I puff my cheeks and blow out a breath, frowning at the cat as its tail swishes from left to right, clearing crumbs off the countertop. “C’mon, let’s get you home. You have a better chance of survival with…anybody else.” Sauntering forward, I approach the mystery cat and glance down at the red collar around its neck: Mr. Binkers.

Mr. Binkers licks his paw, telling me he’s already right at home. I sigh. Evicting my newest roommate might be more challenging than anticipated. Despite my fatigue, I muster up the energy to coax him toward the open door and into the hallway. “Let’s go, kitty-kitty. Shoo. Adios.” I make some meowing noises and clap my hands, hopping up and down to garner excitement.

Yay, the hallway! How fun!

Judging by the deadpan look I receive, Mr. Binkers thinks I’m a moron.

My shoulders sag. “Fine,” I huff in defeat. “Sleep on my counters. Maybe they’ll finally get some use.” That is, outside of my monthly baking spectacles for the West Los Angeles Police Department. Most nights it’s pantry staples and frozen dinners.

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