“It’s fine,” I said. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”

—

After that, I dragged my ass home. I was almost there when I got the icing on my day’s cake. A text from Ricky. Not calling, huh? Quickly followed by Understand things might have changed. Not trying to give you grief.

I cursed and resisted the urge to text back while driving. I pulled into the parking lot behind my building and sent: Give me 5.

I hadn’t wanted to call Ricky too soon, because that seemed disrespectful to James: “Hey, I just dumped my ex. So how about dinner?” Then I got distracted by my disappointing day with Gabriel. But I should have sent a quick note that all was fine.

I walked into my apartment. The first thing I did was look for TC. Every damned time, I looked.

Then I called Ricky.

“I’m sorry,” I said when he answered.

“Nothing to be sorry for. We’re okay to talk, then?”

“Yes. It’s . . . sorted. With James. We’re fine.”

As I said that, I realized it could be interpreted as “James and I are fine,” not “You and I are fine.” I didn’t clarify. I wasn’t ready to tell Ricky about the breakup. He couldn’t exactly say, “Great news!” and I didn’t need more awkward today.

“You around?” he said. “I was hoping to catch you before you left the city.”

I paused, considering lying and driving back to the city. I could feel the tug of his voice, like someone trying to pull me out of deep water, and I wanted to grab hold, but I couldn’t manage it.

“No, I’m home,” I said. “What’s your schedule like tomorrow?”

“All clear past eleven.”

“How about here, then? In Cainsville. That might be better for now. The town doesn’t even have a newspaper.”

He chuckled. “Bonus. What time do you get off work?”

“Three.”

“I’ll swing by and meet you at the diner.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I hung up with Ricky and sat on the couch, staring at my blank wall. All my walls were blank. And mauve. I’d wanted to paint them, to get rid of a lingering smell, but I hadn’t gotten around to it. Now that just seemed like one more failure. I’d broken it off with a great guy. I was unsatisfied with my dream job. Lost my cat. Hadn’t painted my walls. Also, I had forgotten to pick up a coffee to get me through my evening of research work. The last was a problem fixed by a ten-foot trek to the coffeemaker, but I was in a funk, and it seemed insurmountable.

My cell dinged with a text from Gabriel.

Skip the client files.

I’d barely finished reading that when a second came in.

Pamela priority. Then Ciara.

Ten seconds later.

Take time off if you need it. Will discuss Tuesday.

I slumped lower into the couch. Gabriel had apparently decided I was put off by the amount of work. I could call back and say, “It’s not the work. It’s you. I quit.” The perfect revenge. Toy with him until he dangled an offer I couldn’t refuse and then, just when he thought he’d snagged me and his schedule would ease, I’d quit. Mwa-ha-ha. Take that, you scoundrel.

Yeah.

There wasn’t even a moment’s pleasure in the thought. I didn’t want revenge. I didn’t want . . .

I didn’t want to hurt Gabriel.

There it was. Plain and simple, and stupid as hell. He’d hurt me. Shouldn’t I want some payback? Maybe not the immature scenario I’d just imagined, but at the very least I shouldn’t mind hurting him, if that’s what came of it.

Ninety minutes had passed since I’d left the office, and he was still trying to figure out why I hadn’t been my usual upbeat self. Still trying to make it right. I could say he really didn’t want to lose his new employee, and I’m sure it was partly that, but it was also . . .

I looked at those texts and I didn’t see Gabriel, hard-assed lawyer. I saw a boy whose mother had left when he was fifteen, who must have left so many times before that he never once considered the possibility she was dead, just presumed she’d abandoned him and went about his life as if that sort of thing happened. As if that’s what you should expect from people. They’d get tired of you. They’d decide you were more trouble than you were worth. And they’d leave.

I picked up the phone and texted back. That’s fine. Send more if you have it. See you Tuesday.

I sent the message, hauled my ass off the sofa, and changed for a run.

—

Normally I ran down Main Street. Tonight, I wasn’t feeling sociable, so I headed into the residential neighborhoods as I struggled to slough off my mood. Then, as I turned a corner, I glimpsed a streak of black fur tearing behind a hedge, and I stopped.

“TC?” I called.

Silly, of course. He wasn’t the only black animal in Cainsville. But when I paused, my legs twitched, as if urging me to keep going. I checked around the hedge. No sign of any furred critters. I scanned the yard but still saw nothing. So I resumed my jog.

I’d gone halfway down the quiet street when a shape darted across the intersection ahead. There was no doubt it was a black cat, roughly the same size as TC.

I whistled. The cat scampered along the next street and vanished out of sight.

“TC?” I called as I hurried after him.

Seriously? Take a hint, girl. Dude’s running the other way. You’ve never chased a guy before. Don’t start now.

I just wanted to make sure he was okay. That he hadn’t been . . .

What? Abducted from my apartment? Kidnapped and dumped here, a mile away, and somehow couldn’t find his way home? It was a mile. Real pets cross continents for their people.

When I reached the corner, there was no sign of TC, but I jogged along looking left and right. At the next corner, I stopped on the curb and closed my eyes. I felt a twinge and opened my eyes just as a black cat dashed into a yard.

Let me get close enough to make sure it’s him. That’s all I need.

When I neared the house, I slowed. The shuttered windows made the house look as if it was asleep. No, as if it was drowsing, waiting . . .

I shook off the feeling. Still, the house was worth staring at. Victorian literature was my area of specialty, but I’d always taken an interest in architecture, too, and this house combined the two perfectly. It was a Queen Anne, which often conjures up images of the most over-the-top, wedding-cake Victorians, but this one had the hallmarks while showing dignified restraint. Less of a flouncy cancan dancer than a well-born lady who knows how to rock a fancy dress and killer pair of heels.