"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.