I freeze, rooted to the spot. When I got home from the office and immediately changed out of my crisp black pencil skirt and heels and into my loungewear, I exited the walk-in closet and left the bedroom doorwide open. I attempt to raise my knife-free hand to the doorknob. But my brain will not make my body move. I strain to hear anything else. Like maybe the sound of aserial killer breathing on the other side of the door waiting for me. Yet, I hear nothing. Open the door, Kat. Just open the door.
But I don’t. My breath is coming fast and shallow.
Then a cold and steeling thought breaks through the adrenaline thrumming in my veins:Remember, Kat? Remember that you have been imagining your own death with concerning intensity over the last month? That you don’t really care if you live or die? Open the goddamn door.
Bang!
I fling the bedroom door wide open, my knife-wielding hand flying into the bedroom before my body does. I scan the room, waiting to be tackled, or stabbed, or maybe even shot. But nothing happens. No one is here.What had I been expecting? Ghostface?
My gaze flicks across the room to the French doors, which are standing slightly ajar, the opaque sage green curtains fluttering softly in the breeze. I rush to the double doors, slam them, and swiftly relock them. Once I clear the room, the walk-in closet, and the bathroom en suite, I stride over to the bed and lean against the side.
I get this wild image of a hand darting out from under the bed to grab my ankle and I all but fling myself down onto my belly, stabbing at the empty air under the bed. Again, nothing is there. Nothing except for a couple of dust bunnies.
I sit at the edge of the bed, panting. The rain must have blown the doors open. I bet I forgot to lock them this morning before I left for the office. With my lack of sleep, it’s normal that my cognition and short-term memory would be affected. I heave in a deep breath, staring ahead at the closed double doors. My hammering heart still hasn’t returned to normal.
Jesus Christ.I’m getting a guard dog tomorrow.
4
THE FAMILIAR
KAT
“Well, well, well, aren’t you handsome?” I mutter under my breath. I peer into his big deep green eyes as he makes steady, unblinking eye contact with me. “Wonder what your story is…” I begin, about to lean down and read the little info tag on the outside of his cage.
“We’re not totally sure,” says the animal shelter lady from behind me. I turn around and give her a tentative grin. Her name tag says Carol.
“We know that he is about three years old and that his original owner passed away and left this little guy here to fend for himself. The owners’ adult kids were, we guess, maybe a little superstitious? They didn’t like his look or his energy or something. So, they dropped him off here,” she explains.
I nod, turning to admire his beautiful obsidian fur, and give him a small smile. The feline continues to look right back at me, his purr growing to an audible, soothing rumble.
I had come in here for a guard dog. Maybe a sleek Doberman or bulky, intimidating pit bull of some kind. But here I was, entranced by this little black cat’s bright green stare.
“What’s his name?” I ask, still gazing into those eyes.
“Oh! His name… his name is Bundy. Kind of weird, I know. You can totally change it!” she stammers.
“Bundy?” I ask in an incredulous tone.
As in Ted? Oh my god. He’s perfect. The perfect animal.And a guard cat is just as good as a guard dog after all… right?
“I’ll take him,” I say, not waiting for Carol’s confirmation.
She blinks, surprised, but a smile spreads across her face, conveying relief, if not a little taken aback.
“Alright,” she says with a nod. “I’ll get his transport crate and the adoption paperwork ready for you!”
An hour later, I’m on the sofa at Pearson House, my new guy curled up beside me, already claiming his spot like he’s always belonged here. I had, admittedly, spent a ridiculous amount of money at the pet supply store—buying everything from the highest-rated cat food to a plush bed that he instantly ignored in favor of my lap. But we were home. Geared up and ready for our first night together.
It was strange how quickly everything shifted. Just that morning, I had been researching guard dogs on my phone, in a state of near panic.
And here I was now, with my first ever pet, acat, no less. There was something in his eyes—something both knowing and hopeful all at once—that reached straight into the heart of me. And when I picked him up, felt the warmth and comfort of his purr, it was like a puzzle piece I didn’t know I was missing had just clicked into place.
Now, with the rain tapping gently against the windows and Bundy’s quiet purrs filling my ears, the house feels less empty. Less quiet. As if he’s already started filling in the spaces of myheart that I hadn’t realized were so hollow. His purrs soothe the ragged edges of the grief that’s been threatening to overtake me for weeks now.
“Welcome home, Bundy,” I whisper to him. “It’s you and me now. You’re my new guard cat. My familiar.”
Bundy nudges my hand with his velvety head in reply.
