Page 65 of Hunter or Hunted

I don’t know why that made my fists clench more than the shit stains.

Something glittered beside that empty shoe rack. Something pink? Or purple?

I stepped closer for a better look⁠—

Mrreow!

The kitty.

I whirled around, sure the sound had come from behind me. But only Evan’s gaming chair stared back at me.

Tiptoeing from the room, I listened closely. No more meows. I stepped back into the hallway and squinted around the bedroom. Was he hidden in the blankets? Or under the mound of clothes on the floor? I peeked around the corner, and⁠—

Another doorway.

Tucked in the far left corner of the bedroom, hidden from view unless you were inside the room.

“I’m coming, kitty,” I whispered, tiptoeing still. Half afraid of tripping over the linens on the floor, half afraid that roaches—the kind with legs, not the kind filled with weed—would swarm my legs.

They didn’t.

I made it to the door and pushed it open.

The smell made me gag. This was where it originated.

Cat shit lay in mounds all over the linoleum. More overflowed from the litter box, tucked between the toilet and tub. No linens on the floor in here. Just cat shit and piss puddles.

“Mrreow!” sounded to my right.

Atop a tall cabinet, the kitty looked down at me.

I gasped.

Matted fur dangled from his chin. More stuck upright at the top of his head. A red collar clipped around his neck, golden name tag clicking against a silent, broken bell.

Samson.

Samson and Delilah.

That’s where she got the name.

I’d never been an avid churchgoer, but many churches had free or low-cost daycare. As a kid, my mom had dropped me off at different ones from time to time. I vaguely remembered the story.

All I knew for certain was that Delilah killed Samson.

When she’d left Evan, she thought Samson would die in this house. She named herself Delilah as a reminder of the pain she’d caused, her worst regret. Abandoning this little animal she’d loved so much.

“Hey, Samson.” Teary-eyed, I stretched out my hands. “Come here, baby.”

He came in for a sniff.

I slid my hands beneath his armpits and lifted him to my chest.

He snuggled up to my breast, already purring. My heart turned hot, aching and burning, on fire.

“She was wrong, Samson.” I kissed the top of his head, ignoring the smell of urine that clung to his fur. “You won’t die in this house.”

He nuzzled close to my neck.