“I’m fine, thanks.” I took his hand and made eye contact. “How’s Carissa?”

“Okay. She’s a little freaked out by al this, though,” he said, and I nodded.

That was understandable. “She said to tel you thanks for the warning. And good luck.”

“Thanks, but I don’t expect much trouble.” I let go of his hand. “We have them outnumbered by four to one. Those are pretty good odds.”

“I guess so. Come on in and let me show you around.” Brian led us through the utility room and into a large, clean kitchen, dominated by stainless-steel appliances and a roomy island rising from a sea of white tile. Beyond the kitchen was the dining room, flowing into a sunken living area carpeted in spotless white cut Berber.

The interior of the house was as modern and comfortable as the outside was stately and beautiful. The floor plan was open and welcoming, the ideal place for a party—or a massacre. But I couldn’t help imagining how bad a pool of blood would look against that immaculate white tile. Or soaking into the carpet. We’d have to make sure and kil Sean and Miguel outside, to save the Taylors a huge cleaning bil and a lengthy explanation to the authorities a cleaning service would no doubt cal .

Fortunately, we were too far from large-scale civilization to have to worry about human witnesses. Or noise.

“These are for you.” Brian said, laying his hand on a neatly folded pile of clothing on the dining-room table. “Your dad mentioned that you needed some of Carissa’s clothes. She slept in these last night, so they stil smel like her. Wil that work, or should I look for something else?”

I held the nightshirt up to my face. It smel ed like Carissa: young and healthy, with a hint of floral perfume and a moisturizing facial cream. “It’s perfect,” I said, laying the shirt back on the pile.

“Good. There’s plenty to eat in the fridge, so help yourselves to whatever you want.” That particular courtesy was in case we needed to Shift, which was a good possibility. I’d never met a cat yet whose refrigerator wasn’t wel stocked. All the time. And judging from the Taylors’ extra-wide, side by side, stainless-steel monstrosity, there would be plenty to choose from. “Do you need anything else?”

“Nope, this ought to do it,” Marc said.

Brian nodded, and to his credit, he only looked mildly tense, which meant he was holding up better than I was. I was starting to get real y nervous.

“Why don’t you guys get something to eat and fil Brian in on the plan while I transform myself into Carissa.”

“No problem,” Lucas cal ed, already neck deep in the fridge.

I used the first-floor bathroom to shower, trying to wash off as much of my own scent as possible. While I was at it, I used Carissa’s soap, face wash, and shampoo. Clean, young-smel ing, and dry, except for my damp hair, I changed into Carissa’s pajamas. The shirt was a pink halter top, held on with spaghetti straps tied at the shoulders. It was a little tight through the bust—warping the petals of a large silk-screen daisy—but it would work. The pants matched the shirt: pink, with hundreds of tiny white flowers identical to the one stretched across my chest. The top ended just above my bel y button and the pants rode low on my hips, even with the drawstring cinched, so a wide strip of my stomach showed in between.

Marc whistled when I emerged from the bathroom. “Why don’t you sleep in things like that?”

I gave him a secretive smile. “Maybe I do.”

You don’t. You haven’t changed that much. You don’t even own anything pink.” Okay, he was right. My grudge against the color pink stemmed from my mother’s fondness for it. However, I did like the soft, loose fit of the pants. Maybe if they came in red…

But that was a thought for another time.

The guys were gathered at the large kitchen island, each part of the way through one variation or another of a ham-and-cheese sandwich. “’Ere you go, Aythe.” Ethan said around a mouthful of ham and Swiss on rye. He swal owed and held up a plate loaded with two sandwiches and a mound of store-bought potato salad. “Eat fast. We don’t have much time left.”

“Thanks.” I took a bite. Several thin slices of ham, provolone, dil pickles, tomato, and real mayonnaise, on whole-wheat bread. My al -time favorite sandwich.

“I can’t believe you remembered this.” I took another bite.

“I didn’t,” Ethan said. “Marc made it.”

Marc. Of course. He never forgot anything, which wasn’t as great as it sounded. “Thanks, Marc.” I scooped up a bite of the potato salad. It wasn’t as good as homemade, but not bad.

“You can thank me later. For now, just eat.”

By the time I’d finished my first sandwich, the guys had cleaned up everything except my dishes. When I picked up my second sandwich, Ethan grabbed my plate, rinsed it, and loaded it into the dishwasher. Mom was going to be pissed to find out she had a whole army of Mr. Cleans who rarely lifted a paw at home. And they would pay for my silence. Boy, would they pay.

At eight-forty, as the last glimmers of daylight faded from the sky, we went over the plan one final time. The easiest way to tempt Miguel into going after

“Carissa” would be to put her out in the open alone. That’s how he’d grabbed the first three tabbies, though with me, he’d just gotten lucky. As badly as I hated to admit it, if I’d followed my father’s orders, they never would have had a shot at me.