Monday Mourning читать онлайн

As I blinked my vision into focus, the drift expanded, changed shape, contracted again.

I stopped, frowned. Could it be?

An appendage snaked out, was drawn back.

What the hell was going on?

I dashed across the street and up the outer stairs.

“Birdie!”

My cat raised his chin slightly and rolled his eyes up. Seeing me, he shot forward without seeming to flex a limb. A small cloud puffed from my mouth as my chest caught his catapulted weight.

Birdie clawed upward, laid his chin on my shoulder, and pressed his belly to my jacket.

His fur smelled wet. His body shivered from cold or fear.

“What’s he doing out here?” A gust snatched Anne’s question and whipped it up the street.

“I don’t know.”

“Can he let himself out?”

“Someone had to have opened a door.”

“You tight enough with anyone to give out a key?”

“No.”

“So who’s been inside?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, we better find out.”

Pulling off her mittens, Anne produced a Mace dispenser from her shoulder bag.

“I think that’s illegal here,” I said.

“So shoot me.” Anne yanked the outer door.

Entering the vestibule was like stepping from a vortex into a vacuum.

Handing off Birdie, I removed my mittens, reached into a pocket, and took out my keys. Palms sweaty, I unlocked the interior door.

The lobby was graveyard quiet. No snow residue or wet prints marred the runners or the marble floor. Heart hammering, I crossed and made a hard right. Anne followed.

Faux brass wall sconces light the interior lobby and corridors.

Normally, the low-level illumination is sufficient. Tonight, two candles were out, leaving murky pools of darkness between the islands of yellow dotting my hallway.

Had the bulbs been out when we left? I couldn’t remember.

My condo lay straight ahead. Seeing it, I stopped dead, totally unnerved.

Black space gaped between the open door and jamb.

10

THROUGH THE GAP, I COULD MAKE OUT DISORDERED SHADOWS and an odd luminescence, like moonlight on water.

I glanced over my shoulder. Anne stood with one arm wrapping the cat, the other upraised, Mace at the ready.

Birdie clung to her chest, head twisted one-eighty to stare at his home.

I turned back to the door, straining to hear sounds on the far side. A footfall. A cough. The whisper of a sleeve.

Behind me, Anne’s ragged breathing. Beyond the door, intimidating silence.

The three of us held stock-still, eyes wide, a triptych in trepidation.

A heartbeat. A lifetime.

Then Birdie made his move.