The glass cabinet behind her head contained the box of first-aid supplies, but when she tried to stretch behind her, the movement sent more sharp shooting pains up her leg. The cat had been joined by another cat on the other side of the sink. Both knew perfectly well they weren’t allowed on the kitchen counters. Both still sat, as if they were the supervisory audience over an audition she was failing. Her skirt hem kept getting wetter. Her forehead and nape were sticky-damp from the heat-if not from shock. And she noticed the nail polish on her middle toenail had a chip. She hated it when her nail polish chipped.

“Allo?”

The sudden voice made her head jerk up like a rabbit smelling a jaguar in her territory. This just wasn’t a kitchen where jaguars prowled. After the divorce, she’d moved home primarily because it was available-her mom and dad had just retired to Florida, leaving the old Vermont homestead clean, ready for family gatherings at any time, but vacant.

She’d made it hers. Not that her mom hadn’t had wonderful decorating taste, but she’d fiercely needed to create a private, safe nest after Simpson took off with his extraordinarily fecund bimbo. Now, at a glance, she reassured herself that the world was still normal, still safe, still hers. The old cabinets held a prize collection of red Depression glass. A potbellied stove sat on the old brick hearth; she’d angled an antique-rose love seat on one side, a cane rocker on the other-both of which made seats for more cats. Red-and-white chintz curtains framed the wide windows overlooking the monster maple in the backyard. Potted plants argued for space from every light source. A crocheted heart draped the round oak table.

Everything was normal. Everything was fine…except that she heard the hurried, heavy clump of boots in her hall, coming toward the kitchen, at the same time she heard the jaguar’s voice doing that “Allo, allo” thing again.