His eyes land on me. “You,” hesays flatly.
I don’t correct his tone.
“Where is she?”
“Upstairs,” I reply. “She’s resting.”
He starts forward.
Mr. Pickles launches himself down the staircase like a demon summoned by rage and audacity. The hiss that comes out of him isunholy.
When the hell did he get out of the room?
Ivy’s dad stops short. “What the hell is that?”
“Cat,” Drew supplies helpfully.
I hide a smile.
Mr. Pickles plants himself in front of the stairs, tail puffed up, eyes locked on the intruder like he’s already written his obituary.
Ivy’s dad blinks. “Is it… guarding her?”
“Yes, he is,” I say. “Very seriously.”
The cat growls.
Ivy’s dad exhales sharply through his nose. “Move it.”
Drew and I look at one another. Neither of us budge an inch.
Mr. Pickles does not move.
Ivy’s dad takes a step closer.
Like lightning, Mr. Pickles bats his shoe. A clear warning he’s not playing.
Drew coughs. “I wouldn’t test him.”
Ivy’s dad slowly looks back at me. “Is this a joke?”
“No,” I say evenly. “But if you give him a second, he might make it one.”
Something shifts in his expression. Fear? Respect? I’m not sure.
He nods once. “Fine. I’ll wait.”
Mr. Pickles sits there with a look that says he remainsunconvinced. His green eyes are locked on Ivy’s dad with a posture I can only describe as attack mode activated.
We’re sittingat the kitchen table when Ivy’s dad finally speaks again. “What happened?”
I glance at Drew before telling him. Not everything. I omit the blood, Ivy being bound to a chair, or how long it took me to find her.
I give him the overview. The stalking and escalation of the previous victim. The gunshot.
Drew sits rigid, staring at his hands.
“And the asshole who took my daughter?” Ivy’s dad asks.
