"We should get going," he says quietly, "get this all over with so we can move on."

Frowning, I push away from Naz. "I'll get my shoes."

"Good."

"You should probably wear some shoes, too, this time."

"I'm already on it."

Ten minutes later, we've both got our shoes on, the two of us in the car, on the way to Manhattan. I've put it off as long as possible, but the time has come to go in and give my official statement about the attack with the cab. The lawyer told Naz if I didn't show up this afternoon, tomorrow they'd be at my door, prepared to escort me in.

That's the last thing I want.

The police station is busy when we get there. The lawyer is already waiting, a necessary formality, or so I'm told. They lead me back to the homicide division, to a small interrogation room, where Detective Jameson and Detective Andrews already wait.

"Mrs. Vitale," Jameson says, smiling in greeting as I sit down across from him, the lawyer right beside me. "I appreciate you taking time out of your busy schedule to come talk to us today. I know you've probably got more important things to do."

I almost tell him he's welcome, thinking he's genuine, when the lawyer clears his throat, chiming in. "Cut the passive aggressiveness, Jameson. She's here. Get on with it."

Jameson shrugs it off, turning to me. "Let's go over it again. What happened that day? Start with you getting in the cab."

"I got in the cab to go home, I wasn't really paying attention... we were driving for a while, and when I looked up, we were going the wrong direction."

I go through it, leaving out big chunks, but repeating exactly what I told them happened the day in the park. As soon as I finish, Jameson shakes his head, leaning back in the chair, as Andrews scoffs. "You're leaving something out."

"I'm not."

"It doesn't add up."

I go over it three more times. They've got me so flustered I almost slip up. The lawyer realizes it, I think, because when they start to hound me again, he speaks up. "She's told you what she knows. She's given you her statement. We're done."

Jameson reaches into his file and pulls out a blank piece of paper, sliding it across the table. He sets a pen on top of it. "Write it down."

I do.

I write it down.

My hand is cramping and my head is pounding by the time I'm done. I sign the paper, confirming it's all true, before walking out. Naz is sitting in the lobby, impatiently drumming his fingers on the arm of a chair.

He stands up as soon as he spots us.

He knows right away I'm upset. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just..."

I don't know exactly what's wrong.

I feel like I've been raked over some coals.

I want to cry.

Ugh, I'm so damn emotional.

"Typical Jameson and Andrews," the lawyer chimes in. "You know how they are."

We leave, and I'm quiet on the drive back, leaning against the door and closing my eyes, wishing my head would stop pounding. We're almost to the house when the silence is shattered, a song ringing out.

Naz's phone.

He grabs it, looking at the screen, his brow furrowing. I watch him as he hesitates before answering. "Hello."

The call lasts only a minute.

He barely says anything except for a strained, "I'll be there."

When we reach the house, he pulls into the driveway, putting up the garage door, but he doesn't pull the car in. I know it right away. I know he's leaving.

He walks me inside, though. He lingers for a moment. He waits until I'm settled in the den before he drops it on me.

"I've got something to take care of," he says quietly. "You'll be okay here by yourself?"

I hesitate. "Sure."

"If you need me for anything… anything… don't hesitate to call me," he says. "I'll have my phone on me, and I mean it, Karissa… anything."

"I'll be fine." I smile reassuringly. "I'm just gonna pack, maybe start piling some boxes up in the garage so they're out of the way."

"Just don't overdo it."

"Yes, sir."

He nudges me before walking away. I hear Killer faintly growling in the kitchen where he's been sleeping as Naz passes through, but it's feeble, like the dog's not sure if it's worth the effort to give him hell today.

It's ten, maybe twenty minutes later, when I hear the side door from the garage open. The growling picks up almost instantly, but this time the dog pours his heart into it.

That was definitely quick.

"Relax, Killer," I say, walking into the kitchen. "It's just Na—"

Naz.

Not Naz.

Holy shit, it's not Naz.

It takes only a second for that reality to strike me. The kitchen is dim. It's a cloudy afternoon. It's a man, massive, with broad shoulders and a husky build. He's probably six and a half feet of solid muscle. His leather jacket clings tightly to his biceps, like the seams around the arms are going to burst. He's twice of me and not at all my Naz.

It was supposed to be Naz.

Not whoever the hell this is.

He's maybe six feet away from me, not close enough to reach me yet, but he's still too close... too damn close... close enough for me to smell him.

My nose knew something was wrong before my eyes did.

The scent is strong, like he's wearing piss that's been bottled as cologne, a woodsy chemical odor that makes my nose twitch. I get a good whiff and oh god, it's disgusting. It nearly takes my breath away.

My chest burns as panic sweeps through me so fast, so intense, that I almost gag, trying hard not to breathe it in.

I stare at him. One second. Two seconds. Three. He knows I'm here. He's already spotted me. He doesn't seem to be at all feeling the panic I'm feeling. His scruffy face is etched with a nasty kind of calm, his eyes a dark pool that lead to no soul. Some monsters hide in plain sight, wearing a mask around others, but I suspect this guy is the kind of monster that doesn't mind that everybody sees his true colors.

He's not even fazed by Killer's growling as the dog viciously bares his teeth.

A few more seconds... ten, maybe twenty... before he takes a step toward me. That's the only warning I need to send me into motion, fight or flight kicking in. There's no way I could ever take down that hulking figure, so I'm going to get the fuck out of there.

I run.

I turn and sprint from the kitchen, my heart racing wildly, thumping so hard it's vibrating in my ears. He's right behind me, running, looming, as Killer starts barking, lunging at the man. It all goes down too quick. I don't know what's happening. Killer's biting, snapping, attacking the man, but it's not enough to stop him.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He keeps coming.

I make it to the front door. The son of a bitch is locked up tight. I fumble with the chains and deadbolts for a second, but there's not enough time to get out that way. I dart a different direction. Back door's also locked, I know. I'll have to go back around to the side door, making my way out the garage.

I run. I fight. Hands grab me, tearing at me, throwing me around to try to get me to stop. He says not a goddamn word. He's grunting and growling in anger, trying to subdue me as he fights off the dog. A kick to the side sends Killer whimpering, but he doesn't retreat, lunging once more. Teeth clamp down on the man's leg, forcing him to let go of me.