Page 23 of Stalked By the Wolf

CLAIRE

It’s freezingcold and snowy when I pull up in front of Nine Lives on Tuesday. Bad weather means it’s going to be a slow day for visitors at the shelter, and for once, I’m okay with that.

My eyes are puffy from crying, and I feel as though I’ve been hit by a truck. Despite knowing that Dane can’t hurt me anymore, I haven’t been able to sleep.

I kept telling myself it was PTSD from seeing him burst into my apartment, but that’s not the truth. I can’t sleep because of the gaping hole in my chest that opened up when I left Sebastian’s.

Walking up to the entrance of the shelter, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. There are dark circles under my eyes, and the mating mark is just barely visible beneath the neck of my wool sweater.

I tug the material up to cover it better and open the door. Susie is the first one here as usual, but the instant I walk in, I can tell that something is off.

The cages along the wall are empty, apart from the ratty cat beds and kitty condos. Our on-call vet, Dr. Thomas, sometimes stops by during the week to administer vaccines, but he wouldn’t have taken all the cats into the back room at once.

My heart thumps in alarm as I stride into the office, where Susie is chatting animatedly into the phone. Her round face lights up when she sees me, and she holds up one plump finger to say she’ll be a minute as she finishes the call.

Based on her bubbly tone, I can tell she’s speaking to a potential donor. “Uh-huh. Well, we aredelighted. Yes. Thankyou. Buh-bye.”

I raise my eyebrows as she hangs up. The woman is beaming and practically levitating off her chair.

“Where are they?” I ask.

“Where are what?”

“The cats.”

“Oh!” Susie’s penciled brows shoot up as though she just remembered. “They’ve all been placed with foster families to make room for more kitties in need.” She presses her lips together and emits a squeak of excitement.

“All of them?”

“All of them.”

“Wow. I —” I shake my head, utterly speechless. Being in a calm home environment is infinitely better for the cats than being cooped up in a cage, but it’s rare to find families who are willing to foster older animals with special needs.

I should be ecstatic, but instead I’m suspicious. I’ve only been off for two days, and Susie found fosters forallof them?

“But that’s not even the best news,” my co-worker gushes, wiggling her hands in excitement. “We got our funding!”

I raise my eyebrows. “Another grant?”

She shakes her head. “I just got off the phone with a brand-new donor. He wired enough money to float us for ayear, and he’s pledged to make a recurring donation to ensure we can stay open.”

“But who —” I can’t finish the thought — not with the unsettling mix of emotions swirling in my stomach.

“Don’t know,” says Susie with a shrug. “He asked to remain anonymous. Can you believe it?”

I shake my head. While the timing is certainly bizarre, Sebastiancan’tbe the anonymous donor.

“Did you scan in the foster applications and attach them to the animals’ files?” I ask.

Susie’s worked at Nine Lives longer than I have, but she sometimes struggles with the computer system and often misses steps in our record-keeping process.

“Not yet. I was just getting ready to do that when our mysterious donor called.”

Reaching for the stack of files on her desk, I open the top one and flip through it. The first foster application is for Hamish, the Scottish Fold who can’t tolerate other cats.

Fallon Brewer-Flemming is the name of the newfoster parent. I let out a little sigh of relief, fighting the disappointment squeezing my insides.

I slide the file to the bottom of the stack and flip open another, and my blood runs cold.

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