“He is. If you see him, please let me know. Otherwise, if you still want to talk, let’s make an appointment.”

“Tomorrow morning,” she said. “Nine A.M.”

“Okay.”

“Meaning you have absolutely no desire to reconcile with James Morgan.”

“What?”

“You’re going out with him tonight. You just agreed to meet me first thing tomorrow, meaning you do not intend to spend the night—”

“Goodbye, Rose,” I said. “If I can’t make it by nine, I’ll call.”

—

Rose was right—I had no intention of spending the night with James. I’ll admit to a tiny temptation to reconsider, just to prove her wrong. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to sleep with him. I like sex. Hell, I really like sex. After three weeks, James probably expected me to suggest room service for dinner. Except he’d see that as reconciliation, which meant I couldn’t. Not yet.

I didn’t make any long-term decisions during that dinner date, but the awkwardness dissipated. While the old feelings didn’t reignite, I could sense them there, waiting to kindle as we talked. When I said I had to head home right after dinner, he didn’t argue, just walked me to my car and kissed me good night. It was a nice kiss. A long one, enough for me to feel that particular spark, but I didn’t pursue it. We promised to talk later, and parted.

It was past midnight by the time I got home. My building was silent, which was nothing new. I’d been there almost a month, and I hadn’t caught more than glimpses of my neighbors. Grace had sworn my apartment was the only vacancy, but by this point I suspected half the building was empty.

I stumbled into my apartment, bolted the door, and shed my shoes and dress as I walked. I collapsed into bed in my bra and panties.

As exhausted as I was, I didn’t fall right to sleep. I’d had an espresso to keep me awake on the hour’s drive home. So I hit the mattress and fell into twilight sleep, surfing between consciousness and slumber until I lost track of time and place. When I woke touching hair, I thought I was still with James, that I’d spent the night after all. I pushed my fingers into his hair and touched—

Cold skin. Ice-cold skin.

I jerked awake, flailing, the hair entwined in my fingers, and I scrambled away, the hair falling free. It hit my bare leg, and I stifled a yelp as I looked down to see—

My hair. Lying on the bed.

There was a confused, nightmare moment where my hands flew to my head . . . which was, of course, covered in hair. I leaned forward, my hands on the bed, eyes shut while I heaved breath. As the oxygen overload hit, I truly woke up, and I sat there, eyes still closed, shuddering, trying to throw off the nightmare. Finally, I straightened, opened my eyes, and—

I saw hair. Not mine this time. Dark, short hair, almost hidden under the tangled sheets. There was clearly no one else in bed with me. The dark hair peeked out, covering a lump barely bigger than—

The cat.

I yanked away the sheet, certain I’d see my poor cat. Someone had killed him and put him here, in bed—

Something rolled from the covers.

I saw skin and a nose and a mouth and—

Black pits where eyes should be.

The neck. Cut clean through. Ragged, bloodless skin and—

The head of Ciara Conway. In my bed.

As I backed away, I touched hair again. I let out a shriek before stuffing my fist in my mouth. A blond wig lay where I’d flung it. I looked at the head and then at the wig, and I tumbled out of bed, kicking free of the twisted covers, hitting the floor hard and then sprinting out the bedroom door.

Phone. I need my—

I spotted my purse on the floor. I grabbed it and yanked the clasp, contents spilling out, clinking and clicking over the hardwood floor. I snatched up my phone and hit the speed-dial number without realizing whom I’d called until I saw the name flash on the screen. Gabriel. I hit the End button. Then I stared at the phone.

Who should I call?

Seriously? You’re asking who to call when there’s a severed head in your bed?

I hit 9. Then 1. Then I stopped.

I needed to take a photo. Ciara Conway’s head was in my bed, and this time I was getting proof.

My fingers shook and my gorge rose, but I went back to the bed, took the picture, and then I e-mailed it to myself and—

My phone vibrated. The sudden movement made me let go. As the phone hit the floor, I saw Gabriel’s name pop up on the screen. Shit. I grabbed for it and—

Something hit the side of my skull. Pain exploded. Everything went dark.

CHAPTER TWELVE

My eyes fluttered open, then closed again, the effort too much, the light too painful. My hand clenched something soft and cool. Sheets. A pillow under my head. I was lying in bed. I opened my eyes. Blue. I saw pale robin’s-egg blue. Then eyes; light irises ringed dark, gorgeous eyes framed with inky lashes and . . .

“Olivia.”

The deep timbre was almost a rumble. I knew that voice. I knew those eyes. My brain sputtered, neurons firing, pain threatening to snuff out thought. Then . . .

Gabriel.

I was in bed. Looking up at Gabriel. My head pounding like I’d downed a fifth of tequila.

I shot up so fast my head and stomach lurched, and I retched. My hands flew to my mouth, my eyes clenched shut. I smelled plastic and felt something cool bump my cheek and opened my eyes to see my bedroom garbage pail shoved under my chin.

I shook my head and backed up as my stomach settled. As I swallowed, I looked around. I was in bed. Gabriel was there. But he was standing beside me, fully dressed, and—

And I was not fully dressed. I grabbed the sheet to cover up, then froze as I saw the bedding. A memory flashed, and my brain finally clicked on, reminding me of what I’d seen—

I scrambled up, knocking into Gabriel as I flew out of bed. I whirled and stood there, breath coming fast, stomach clenching as my gaze swept over the twisted sheets.

“Olivia?”

“There’s . . . there’s a . . .”

I looked around. No wig. No head. I grabbed the sheets and pulled them straight. Nothing. I ran to the other side of the bed. Nothing on the floor.

“Phone,” I said. “I took a picture. I need—”

I stopped, staring at Gabriel, my brain still sputtering as it jammed puzzle pieces into place.

“I . . . I didn’t mean to call you,” I said.

It was, quite possibly, the stupidest thing to be worrying about. But that’s what came out.