Drew’s expression turns blank. “That’s not a defense.”
“It is in my house.”
Drew opens his mouth.
I cut him off before he speaks. “Don’t wait up.”
He throws his hands in the air. “Of course. Fine. Go stalk your stalker. But if you end up in a psychiatric facility, don’t cry to me for help.”
I freeze, his words echoing.
Drew smiles tightly. “Have fun. Get some counseling on your way home.”
I leave before I lose the last shred of dignity I have.
Ten minutes later,I’m in the garage dressed in what is now officially my stalker attire—black hoodie, sweatpants, and gloves. I shove the ski mask into my pocket and mutter, “This is simply a welfare check.”
The silence is enabling.
Sweat runs down my back as I slip out through the garage door. I check to make sure my keys are in my pocket as I duck behind a bush. I’ll need to change my clothes when I’m finished with my mission. Hide them—especially the mask—in the trunk of my car.
If Drew saw the mask, he’d never let me live this down.
Making sure I don’t go near the patio doors where Drew could spot me, I slink along the shadows, heading for the trail in the woods like a man with a new hobby and a rapidly deteriorating grip on reality.
My breathing is heavy when I stop at her property line.I’m not trespassing.Just making sure she’s safe.
A light flips on upstairs, and a wave of relief flows through me.
She’s fine.
Go home.
But my attention sharpens when the back door opens, and Ivy steps onto the patio. I adjust the binoculars to give me a clearer view?—
Why the hell does she have a dish in her hand?
“Here, Mr. Pickles. Come get your dinner.” She sets it down and takes a step back. Then another.
A black cat comes running. He’s skinny and has matted fur. He looks like he’s seen better days.
He eyes her for a few beats, then moves closer. Then another step. Then he begins eating, watching her warily.
“One of these days you’re going to let me pet you.” Her lyrical voice floats into the night, the sound warm and uplifting. Like it hasn’t been tormenting me for the last twenty-four hours.
She’s wearing a pair of soft-looking pajamas. Her long hair flows loose around her shoulders.
She looks… normal. Happy.
My chest twists.
“I have a nice house for you to eat and sleep in. I can buy you a bed. And some toys.”
The cat keeps eating, still watching her. But I see its tail twitch like it’s considering it.
How long has she been feeding this stray cat? And why did she name him Mr. Pickles?
She takes a step toward him.
