Page 1 of Stalked By the Wolf

CHAPTER ONE

CLAIRE

I feela familiar surge of desperation as I tape the pink paper heart to the outside of Kevin’s cage. It reads, “Hi, I’m Kevin! It takes me some time to warm up to new people, but once you get to know me, I’m all snuggles! I’ll do best in a home without dogs and love hearing that I’m a handsome boy.”

Kevin is a 16-year-old long-haired ginger cat who’s been at Nine Lives since I started working here. Nine Lives is a no-kill shelter for senior cats with special needs, and My Furrever Valentine is our biggest event of the year. We hold it every February to boost adoptions before kitten season, when the chances of elderly cats like Kevin being adopted drop even lower.

Once I finish fussing with the heart, Kevin settles into the little indent on his bed and curls up into a ball.

I wish I could do that.

This morning I learned that we didn’t get the grant we need to keep the shelter’s doors open. If morefunding doesn’t come through soon, Kevin may be without a home, and I’ll be out of a job.

The news could not have come at a worse time.

Placing a hand over my belly, I take a deep breath and hope that the little being inside of me can’t sense my stress. “It’s all right,” I whisper. “We’ll figure something out.”

The truth is, I don’t know what I’m going to do if the shelter closes. Landing a job at a nonprofit is hard enough when you’renotpregnant. Even if I manage to hang onto my position, I have no idea how I’m going to pay for daycare or diapers or the million other things this tiny human will need.

A few tears roll down my cheeks as a fresh wave of despair washes over me. But I wipe them away and focus on hanging the heart-shaped signs for the other feline “residents.”

There’s Polly, the nine-year-old calico who won’t use a litter box; Hamish, the Scottish Fold who needs to be an only cat because of his aggression toward other cats; Tator Tot and Nugget, ten-year-old bonded siblings with cerebellar hypoplasia, which makes them walk with a bit of a wobble; and Yo-Yo, a silver tabby who’s missing half his tail and freaks out anytime someone turns on a small kitchen appliance.

The shelter actually has capacity for up to sixteen cats, but ever since we learned that our funding was in question for this year, we stopped taking in new residents. The ones who are left have proven the most difficult to adopt out, so we’ll be looking forfamilies who are willing to foster them if we have to close.

Once I’ve hung all the signs and put up the Valentine’s Day decorations, I check everyone’s food and water and turn to lock up for the night. Pulling the front of my coat tight, I glance around the empty parking lot and make a beeline for my car. Thankfully, it starts right away, so I crank the heat and head for home.

Even though it’s dark and the temperature has already dropped to single digits, there are still people out on the streets. I live in what you might call a rough part of town. It’s one of the few pockets of the city with affordable housing, but over the last year and a half, developers have been buying up the falling-down old buildings and putting in chain coffee shops and high-end grocery stores. A lot of people like it because it’s good for property values, but I know it’s only a matter of time before a developer buys my building, too.

As I drive under the overpass, I see a few familiar faces: a bearded man bundled in a dirty red sleeping bag, a young guy with his dog, and the elderly lady who pushes a shopping cart laden with her belongings up and down Nevada Avenue.

I have to look away when I see the pregnant woman standing outside the gas station across from my apartment building holding a cardboard sign: HUNGRY. ANYTHING HELPS.

That could be you, says a scared voice inside my head, but I hurriedly shove it away.

Although I’d do anything to keep Nine Lives open, I have to plan for the worst. It’s not just me I have to worry about now. In just a few short months, I’m going to have another little person to provide for.

The thought scares the crap out of me.

Pulling up in front of my apartment building, my heart sinks even lower. The dumpster outside is overflowing, someone has graffitied the wall by the steps, and there’s a new “Out of Order” sign on the door to the laundry room.

“I promise I’ll find us something better,” I whisper, looking down at the barely there bump hidden beneath my sweater.

I never planned on being a single mom, but I’ve grown too attached to the little bean inside of me to eventhinkabout giving him up. Even if I can’t afford a better apartment or one of those fancy strollers I’ve seen women pushing around the park, my baby will always know that he is wanted and loved.

Ignoring the heaviness pressing down on my chest, I get out of the car and trudge up the stairs that lead to my unit. But when I reach the top, my muscles go slack, and I drop my keys on the ground.

There, standing outside my door, is the man I thought I left behind.

SEBASTIAN

It’s beensixteen months that I’ve been hunting Dane Murphy. Sixteen months of chasing dead ends. Sixteen months of failing my pack.

For someone with my track record, sixteen months is unacceptable.

For the life of me, I can’t work out how he managed to evade me for so long. No matter how hard they try, people always leave digital bread crumbs: a credit-card transaction here, a text message there, or even having their license plate captured going through a toll plaza.

In the end, I found Murphy by hacking into petrol-station surveillance cameras and running the footage through a facial recognition program. I had to purchase five more servers to run the software at that scale, but it was worth it.

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