I turned to TC. “Now can we go?”

He scampered out.

In the hall, I spotted him at the end, nudging that one closed door. “You have the worst sense of direction, don’t you? That’s locked—”

TC pushed it half open with his paw.

“No!” I said, lunging after him. “Not in—”

He dashed through. I didn’t spend a second wondering how the heck a locked door got opened, because for once the rational explanation was the one that made sense. It was also the one that had me taking out my gun.

That door had been locked. Absolutely, undeniably locked. If it wasn’t now, that meant I wasn’t the only person here.

I suppose the intruder expected me to tear through after TC, having lured him in with some ripe-smelling tidbit. But while I was fond of my cat, it was a “break into an abandoned house for him” kind of affection, not “run into a death trap for him.”

Gun raised, I kicked open the door and peered in. Steep steps rose into darkness. The attic.

“TC?” I called.

A bump sounded above, as if he’d jumped onto something. Then a loud thump, and I had to stop myself from running up after him.

“TC?” I called. “Are you okay?”

Another thump, lighter. Then an odd bump-bump-bump over the floorboards. I pointed my gun with one hand while lifting my flashlight-phone with the other. TC appeared, dragging something behind him. At the top of the stairs, he stopped and meowed.

“Come down here,” I said.

He answered with a “No, you come here” yowl. When I didn’t move, he nudged his trophy to the edge of the steps. I could make out a rough covering, like fur. He grabbed the fur and pulled the thing closer to the edge.

“Is that a rat?” I said.

It was too big for a mouse. Hell, it looked big enough to be a raccoon—a young one, at least. I stepped forward then stopped, as I remembered why I was staying at the base of the stairs.

“Come down,” I said. “Now. I’m not chasing—”

He disappeared. I fought a groan. I should leave. I really should. But if someone was up there, TC might get hurt. I was about to call him again when the bundle at the top of the stairs moved. He was pushing it toward the edge. Determined to bring his prize with him.

“I don’t want—”

Too late. He gave the thing a shove and down it came, bump-bumping over the steps as it rolled, while he trotted behind it. When his trophy was halfway down, I started to realize what it was, but I just stood there, light shining on the thing, watching it roll, telling myself I was wrong, had to be wrong, until it came to rest at my feet, and I was looking down at the head of Ciara Conway.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I scooped up TC and got the hell out of that house, not stopping until I was on the front sidewalk. Then I called Gabriel. It went to voice mail.

“Goddamn you,” I muttered, then said, “Gabriel? I need you to call me now. This isn’t a joke. Call me.”

I hung up and dialed 911. No more screwing around. I didn’t care if Ciara’s head vanished before the police got here. My conscience could no longer rest knowing that she was dead and I was carrying on as if nothing had happened. If Gabriel would have advised otherwise, well, then he should answer his damned phone.

My call went to the state police. I asked if I should report a problem to the local PD instead and they said yes. Did I want them to connect me? Just then my phone beeped with an incoming call from Gabriel. I asked the dispatcher for the number instead. Records would show that I’d placed this call. Better to speak to my lawyer now.

“I’m in town,” Gabriel said before I could speak. “I need the address. If you don’t know it—”

“Did you get my messages?” I said. “Any of them?”

“Messages?”

He waited patiently until I finished cursing him out and then said, “Is something wrong, Olivia?”

“My damned cat just found Ciara Conway’s head. In the house where he was trapped.”

“Do you have an address?” he said, less casually now.

I gave it to him. “It’s over—”

“I know where it is. I’m less than a mile away.”

“I’ll be waiting out—”

“Stay on the line, Olivia. Tell me what happened.”

I did. His car careered around the corner as I was getting to the part about calling 911. He’d climbed out and was closing the car door when TC zoomed past me.

“Watch out!” I said before he slammed the door on the cat.

TC jumped into the Jag and perched on the front seat.

“You might not want him in there,” I said. “He has claws.”

Gabriel closed the door. “At least we’ll know where he is.”

“Just don’t bill me for the damage.”

He took a flashlight from the trunk, then walked over. “As I was saying, yes, you were correct to call 911. It establishes a timeline, as does my call. I will handle contacting the local police, but I want to take a look inside first. Verify that the head is still there and keep it within sight. You can wait in the car with the cat if you like.”

“It’s not the head that sent me flying out of that house. It’s remembering what happened the last time. I got out before I was knocked out.”

“Good. Did you hear anyone inside?”

I said no, then explained about the attic door.

“That is odd,” he said as I led him into the yard. “But the basement door did something similar, and I don’t believe it ‘just stuck.’ Let’s see what we have.”

The head was still at the bottom of the attic steps. The head. That’s how I thought of it now. Disconnected from any formerly-living human being, because otherwise my gut started shouting, “It’s her head. Ciara Conway’s head. Severed from her body. Carted around. Tossed into a bed. Dragged by a cat. Pushed down the stairs. The poor girl’s head.” The horror and the indignity of that was too much. So it became “the head.”

Gabriel seemed to have no such issues. He crouched and examined it from all angles.

“It appears to have been preserved,” he said. “Most likely embalmed. That would explain the lack of rot and of scent, though TC still picked it up. A substandard job, then. Is it in the same condition as the last time you found it?”

I nodded.

He straightened, frowning down at the head as if it perplexed him. “You said you presume TC came in through the open basement window?”

“Yes. He’d been down there awhile. Fortunately, he had water and found food.”

“Meaning he could have been down there since he disappeared. Right before you found that head in your bed. Which he then found in the same house where he’d been trapped.”

“And that makes no sense, which means the head must have been planted while I was rescuing him. I was trapped in the basement just long enough for that to happen.”

“Possible, but that presumes the killer was either following you on your jog and took advantage—having the head conveniently nearby—or he was already in the house. I suspect TC didn’t jump through that window. He was brought and left here. That could mean there is no one in this house tonight. TC was being kept here, as was the head.”

“Which he smelled through two stories? Despite it being embalmed? And that doesn’t explain stuck and unlocking doors.”

“I know. It’s not a puzzle we’ll solve tonight. For now, we need to call the police. First, though, I want to take a look in the attic. Do you want to come or guard the evidence?”

“I’ll go. You can guard.”

“That wasn’t one of the options.”

“I know,” I said as I brushed past him.

Gabriel didn’t try to stop me, but he didn’t hang back at the foot of the stairs, either. He came up until he could see what I was doing, while keeping one eye on the “evidence” below.

“Don’t touch anything,” he said. “Try not to leave too many footprints.”

“I’ve been shedding hair lately. Is that a problem?”

“I will explain the footprints and any additional forensic evidence by saying you came up after the cat. I’m merely asking you to keep that evidence to a minimum.”