I bent my knee, ready to plant it where he’d hurt for a long time. But he set me down and held me back with long, strong arms. I never had a chance to make contact.

He switched one hand to my throat and said, “Try that again, and I will really hurt you. Understand?”

He was choking off my air, and within seconds my lungs began to burn. I nodded, and he released the pressure but kept his hand around my neck.

“Your phone?” he said.

I glanced down and nodded right, toward my jeans pocket.

He used his free hand to reach in and take it. Then he dropped it on the floor and stomped on it with the heel of his boot.

Black leather boots. Remember that, Jillian.

“I’m lowering you to the floor. Sit down and don’t fight me.” He knelt as I slowly went down and said, “Put your wrists together in front of you.”

The hand encircling my throat tightened again, so I quickly complied. After picking up a zip tie, he used one hand to slip it around both wrists and tighten it-almost like he’d done this a hundred times.

Well practiced. Done this before. Remember that, Jillian. Once my hands were bound, he let go of my neck. I felt tears stinging behind my eyes and wanted to gulp in air, but I wasn’t about to let him see weakness. I willed back those tears and steadied my breathing. Then I glanced left and caught Syrah peeking around the corner of the sofa.

No. I wanted to scream. Get away from here.

My attacker was zip tying my ankles and finished just as Syrah started to slink toward the man.

Hoping to distract my captor, I said, “Tell me what this is about.”

Unfortunately this guy hadn’t missed Syrah’s approach. He lunged toward my cat, but my nimble friend was too quick. He raced across the room and then slowly sat. He offered one giant open-mouthed hiss at the bad guy.

I could have lifted both legs and kicked the intruder, but I was sure it wouldn’t do any good. He’d proven he was powerful enough to control me with one hand, and if I pissed him off, he might take revenge on one or more of the cats. I stayed still.

The man stared at me. “What do I want? I want you to stay out of this business.”

This business? What exactly is this business? The murders?

He leaned close until our faces were only inches apart. His breath was clean, but the scent on his skin-from his shaving cream, maybe?-was distinctive. Citrus? Lime?

Remember that, Jillian.

“Your cats are mine if I want them,” he said. “All of them. Even that brood downstairs. I’ll let you keep them today. But only if you go back to making your little quilts and quit showing up where you don’t belong. You shouldn’t be keeping domesticated animals in the first place.”

Uh-oh, I thought. Was he a radical activist? That’s what he sounded like.

He stood and made a quick sidestep toward Syrah, but again my cat was too quick and avoided capture. But Syrah didn’t leave the room. He slowly sat again near the foyer entrance, the tip of his tail twitching, ears flat against his skull. He never took his golden eyes off this invader.

The man laughed. “You’re a little soldier. You’d do fine in the wild-and that’s where you belong.”

He sounds almost robotic at times. Like this is all scripted and he’s a bad actor. Remember that, Jillian.

He was looking down at me. “Thanks for leaving the door open, but don’t get comfortable thinking your security system will stop me. I’m prepared for anything.”

He walked past me, and seconds later I heard the back door slam.

The adrenaline rush created by this… this shock wore off at once. My legs began to shake as if I’d been soaked in another rainstorm.

Syrah bounded from his spot on the other side of the living room and came to my side. He rubbed his head against my shoulder. Soon Merlot joined us, his coat so puffed out, he looked like a Pomeranian that had just been groomed. Even Chablis arrived to see what was going on, looking wary as she sniffed the air. But petting them with my hands bound wasn’t very comfortable. The zip tie was brutally tight.

I leaned back against the sofa, every ounce of energy drained. But I held back the tears that threatened again, thinking how that man would pay for coming into my house and terrorizing me and my cats.

When I heard Kara call out, “Jillian, your back door isn’t locked,” I felt my shoulders slump with relief. I’d been sitting with my back against the bottom of the sofa for thirty minutes.

“Um, I need a little help in here, Kara,” I called. I turned my head, and over the back of the couch I saw her put several grocery bags on the counter.

“Where are-oh my God.” She hurried around the dining room table and knelt by my side, joining Merlot and Syrah. “Who did this?”

“Wish I knew. Can you grab some shears from my sewing room? I am so very tired of these nasty plastic bracelets.”

She left and a few seconds later returned and snipped off the restraints.

“Thank you,” I said, rubbing my wrists.

She rested a gentle hand on my cheek and looked me in the eyes. “We need to call the police.”

I pointed out the remnants of my cell phone. “Can I use yours?”

“I’ll call 911. You’re probably too shaken up to dial right now,” Kara said.

“No, let me give you Candace’s number. Everyone is busy in town with another crime.”

“Another crime? What is going on in Mercy?” she said. Then she dialed the number I spieled off.

I was actually relieved she did the calling. Candace must have answered, because Kara explained how she’d found me. Then she disconnected and looked at me. “She’s on her way.”

I let out a long sigh of relief.

While we waited, we sat on the couch and I told Kara what had happened, spilling out words as if getting rid of them would also rid me of the memory of that horrible man. But I began to realize that her interested expression was… well… almost too keen. Was she making mental notes for whatever she planned to write about the current crime wave in Mercy, South Carolina?

When I finished telling my story, she stood, picked the zip ties up off the floor and said, “You’d better give me a key and the alarm code. Your door needs to stay locked at all times.” She started toward the kitchen.

“Where are you going with those?” I started after her.

“To throw them out,” she said.

“Candace will want them.” I held out my hand.

She gave them to me. “That’s true. Meanwhile, I better put the groceries away.”

The doorbell rang, and I hurried to answer while Kara continued on into the kitchen. Merlot and Syrah lingered just outside the foyer.

I opened the front door, and Candace immediately wrapped her arms around me. Rain was still falling, and her hug got me wet again, but I didn’t care. And this time the tears could not be stopped.

Then over her shoulder I saw Chief Mike Baca standing on the stoop holding an umbrella.

I pulled away from Candace, swiping at my tears. “Sorry. Come on in.”

“Glad to see you’re okay,” Chief Baca said.

“Thanks, but I’m fine.” Liar, liar. For some reason, I felt embarrassed about him seeing me like this. But being manhandled and threatened had created a vulnerability I apparently didn’t know how to deal with.

Candace removed her slicker. “What should I do with this?”

I handed her the zip ties. “We can trade. He used those on my feet and hands.” I took her slicker and the chief’s umbrella and hung them on the hall tree.

I was grateful for Candace’s arm around my shoulders as Syrah and Merlot led us into the living room. My boys sat in front of the entertainment center as if waiting for the show to begin. A lot friendlier show than the last one.

Candace produced a plastic baggie from one of her uniform pockets and dropped in the zip ties. She then held the bag up for inspection. “You would have gotten out of these eventually. Cheap hardware-store variety.”