“I suggest you focus your considerable talents and effort on finding another career path.”

From the moment those words left Agent Grant’s lips, I realized my dream of being a profiler for the F.B.I. was dead. All because I happened to come from a small town in the Midwest.

Seriously, that’s the only reason he would give me.

So I did what any sane woman with a heart full of rage and an Ivy League education would do.

Pack up what was left of my failed life and move back…

I don’t know what triggered the flags on my file, but you can sure as hell bet I will find out—even if it kills me.


“Who’s there?” I call, rising to my feet. Remembering the eyes from the night before, I tiptoe on bare feet to my bag, pulling the spiked brass knuckles out of the front pocket in a practiced motion. No one answers, so I creep towards the living room, staying behind corners and in blind spots until I’m sure there’s no one waiting for me on the other side. When I get to the living room, I look from left to right nervously, and a THUMP makes me jump three feet in the air.

“Holy Shit!” Looking around in full panic mode, I curl my hands in brass knuckled fists, and get ready to defend myself. Another thump is followed by a vase crashing to the ground and a large animal leaping towards me like a predator in a Discovery Channel show. WHAT THE FUCK?!

“Oooooooof!” I grunt, falling backwards onto the hardwood in a heap. A low rumble vibrates over me as the animal stands on my chest, making it impossible to catch my breath. An answering yowl echoes from upstairs, and before I know it, another monster joins the one pinning me. It looks down at me curiously, its furry face upside down over mine. I’m being attacked by two gorgeous, full grown serval cats.

Where in the HELL did these beasts come from? These things cost a FORTUNE, and usually, owners keep them close for fear of them terrorizing local wildlife. The one on top of me leans down and licks my face from top to bottom and the one above me makes another yowling sound.

I reach up carefully—they ARE wild animals, even if someone is keeping them as pets—and scratch the heavy chest smasher behind the ears. “Who do you belong to, buddy? You’re too pretty to be roaming my house like a lost kitten.” The cats yowl in response, which tells me they’re definitely used to humans. Cats only meow to humans, and these guys are much more feral than a housecat. Unfortunately, that doesn’t help me puzzle out who they belong to. Neither have collars or obvious chip bumps that I can see.

Whistler’s Hollow is a WEIRD fucking town.


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