Dark, long black hair cascaded down a red trench coat. Glowing yellow eyes looked at me. “Hello, Bree,” the beautiful vixen spoke. “Come sit at ...y knee.” Just as a scared person would do, I gave her what she wanted. I let the thought cross my mind of whether to scream, run or go for my phone. Just as I expected, she read my thoughts. “You don’t want to do that. Come.” “Who are you? And why are you in my house?” I asked, making my voice sound stupid. “Someone you don’t want to piss off.” Very. She’d left him a note pad and a pen, on which he scribbled love notes, and occasionally sketches of Catharine. He’d tear them out and send them to her with his empty meal dishes. He had a small bookshelf, contents: A Farewell to Arms, A Tale of Two Cities, Moby Dick and, last but not least, The Count of Monte Cristo. He felt akin to Dantes, there in his own Chateau D’If, but lucky for Dantes security cameras did not exist back then, nor did sadistic beauty queens with unusual ways of winning. More

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