Page 82 of Savage Seduction

As I reach the top step, I pull out my phone, hoping to see a message from Ben. Even though we argued, it was out of strong feelings for each other, not indifference. I'd love to see ten messages waiting there, with Ben professing his love, declaring he would never abandon me.

Nothing.

Damn. He’s still upset, but it doesn’t seem like it’s fair. After all, I didn’t do shit to him. But then again, maybe he’s not upset…am I making his feelings all up in my head?I felt the rug pulled out from under me when I found out he was planning to leave the country. I shake my head and sigh. I hope I haven’t completely screwed this up for myself.

God, I feel like a crazy person.

I look out at the street as I walk the outside hallway to my apartment. The night is quieter than usual, the moon only half full, which is a good sign for the city. No matter whatscience says, full moon nights were always more unpredictable when I was a cop. A sorrowful moan from my right tears me away from my memories. It's coming from inside my apartment. I reach for the lock with the key in hand but stop short. The knob is covered in blood. My heart leaps into my throat. A single trail of darkening red blood runs down the door to the threshold. Not a lot, but no matter how much unexpected blood I see is still really concerning.

The door jamb is splintered at the deadbolt, and I use my foot to push the door ajar. Instinctively, I reach for the gun that I no longer carry and curse myself for not carrying one despite having a concealed weapons permit.

I reach for my phone, but another moan from inside the apartment pulls me over the threshold without calling for backup. The police would take forever to get here, and I'm not willing to wait. I step inside and listen for anything that might tell me where the danger is or where the source of the moan might be.

Nothing.

A few more steps deeper into the living area, I stop and look back at the door. The apartment is in shambles. The lamp is broken, lying in shards of pottery and glass next to the shattered coffee table. The cushions of the sofa are cut, the foam bursting through the slashed fabric like a disemboweled belly. I step backward, and my heel crushes a piece of broken glass. The unexpected sound sends a tingle of fear surging up my spine, and I fight hard not to shiver.

I should really call the police.

Moaning, followed by the saddest-sounding yowl I've ever heard, comes from down the hallway. I take a couple of quick steps and stop; my back pressed against the wall. No sounds come from the rooms on either side, but I decide I'd better check the bathroom first since it’s closest. The door is closed, something I never do when I leave the apartment.

I hesitate to touch the knob, but I shrug it off when I hear another yowl and some scratching coming from the other side. I open the door and step back, but not fast enough.

Something heavy and moving inhumanly fast collides with my head and sends me tumbling backward. I scramble to my feet and put up my hands in self-defense. I turn, searching for where the attack might come from next.

"Chubs?" I say as I realize the black ball of muscle, twitchy energy, and rage before me is none other than the stray kitty I've been trying to get inside the apartment for years. "What are you doing in here?"

That’s when I notice it—blood caked Chubs’ fur and all four paws. I bend down and kneel, coaxing the agitated feline toward me. "Come on, buddy. It’s me. I won’t hurt you."

A few seconds pass and I can see the indecision in the cat's eyes as his tail flicks from side to side. Something horrendous had taken place here, judging by the sheer amount of blood. "Are you hurt, Chubs?"

Apparently making up his mind to comply with my begging, he strolls over to me. A soft purr and a few more swishes of his tail later, he begins rubbing his face against my knees. I take the opportunity to check the cat over from head to tail for injuries, but despite the blood, he appears perfectly in order.

Chubs sits down in front of me as if to say: look at my front paws. I pick one up to inspect the pads. The large talons on the cat are still partially visible, extending past the fur. At first, I let out a sigh of relief when I realize Chubs is unharmed, but then I notice a couple of shreds of fabric under the front claws. Careful not to startle the cat who’d never liked being inside in the first place, I soothingly speak with him as I get up to get a few plastic zip-sealed bags from the kitchen. When I return, I pluck the textile shreds from the claws and put them into the bag. I then use a damp cloth to cleanChubs’ paws, front legs, and mouth—the rag now completely red with blood. I place that into the bag for analysis as well.

I go to the front door and close it. I don't want Chubs getting out in case the police need to further process him for evidence. Surprisingly, he doesn’t seem to mind and settles down in the kitchen where I give him some food and water. It's clear to me that whoever had been inside my apartment had met with the sharp end of Chubs, who’d come by for his evening treats.

Visually, the apartment had been ransacked, and that could have drawn Chubs there as well, but once inside the apartment, the cat attacked. There was blood everywhere, even Chubs’ back claws had been used as weapons.

I place a call to Bretton, give him the address, and then say, “If you want to involve the police, I’ll leave it up to you.” He does, and as expected, he arrives before them. I hold Chubs so that no one else gets hurt and even help the crime scene fellas when they swab him from head to toe. The already impossibly long evening drags on and on. I sit down on the sofa, petting Chubs over and over again, soaking in his purrs as if they have healing powers.

Bretton comes and sits next to me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m unharmed, if that’s what you mean?”

He furrows his brow. “We’re friends, Max. I care what happens to you.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. It’s been one hell of a night.”

Bretton puts a reassuring hand on my knee and squeezes it. A silence settles between us, but only for a moment before he taps my knee with his knuckles before he goes to stand, but I stop him.

“Do you have any new leads on where Viktor might be? I have a feeling when you run the D.N.A. on these samples… it’s going to be him.”

Bretton shakes his head. “I’d be surprised if we get a hit.”

“Why’s that?”

“Viktor is too smart, cunning. There’s no way he would have been taken down by an attack cat.” Bretton gestures toward Chubs who sits on my lap.

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