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Faces don’t change, and I can still read her like a book. Tress Montor is scared . . . and that terrifies me.

“Tress,” I say, my heart beating pathetically against my rib cage, anxious for release from the rising panic. “What is it?”

She doesn’t speak, only turns the phone to me. I can see the party above us, Hugh facing Ribbit, the clock between them, a sea of faces below, phones held aloft. Above them on the second-floor landing, black padded feet circle, tail flicking.

Chapter 40

Cat

A strange girl

smells of salt as she walks

darkness eating her sounds

—one sound—over and over,

Deep gasps between.

The cousin bolts, her escape draws attention

and the girl’s sound goes light and high

With hope.

A light she makes follows the path

where a tail should be

stubbed out, by human hands.

I yawn-stretch, hackles rising.

Make myself bigger

follow sounds and smells

more promising than her as she

searches for something lost.

Chapter 41

Tress

“Shit.”

Felicity’s voice is light and breathless when she spots the cat on the livestream. “What do we do?” she asks.

I flick the video away, thinking. The jolt of panic I felt at the sight of the velvety paws has settled into a line of reasoning, each fact easing out the high peaks of adrenaline in my bloodstream.

“The cat isn’t hungry,” I say, “or he already would’ve grabbed someone.”

I pull the video back up, analyzing the few frames where he can be spotted.

“He’s not hunting, either,” I say, thinking aloud. “He’s too loose, just strolling. He’s . . .”

Felicity leans forward, chains jangling as she watches the video with me. “He’s prowling,” she says. It’s a good word for it. He’s moving cautious and slow, investigating while avoiding attention.