She ended up in the basement, among the cobwebs and still packed boxes. Dark cinnamon hair spilled over her shoulders, the scent of rosemary and jasmine from her designer shampoo still lingering among its strands. Tears slipped between her eyelashes, washing away mascara, as she reflected how nothing had gone as she'd planned. Not since she'd moved in with James three months ago.

They had quarreled, she remembered, that first day. While the movers carried in her belongings, and that damned cat of his underfoot, they had argued over clients. She had worked hard for her position, harder than he had, and wasn't about to hand over anything just because his name had history. He had conceded defeat with a laugh and a kiss, raising his hands in surrender and drawing her to him.

She'd been under a lot of stress, adjusting to her new job at James' firm, and if things had also been tense at home, well that was understandable. They were both used to living alone, to having everything the way they wanted, and now they each had to compromise.

She wasn't a cat person. Could see no point in owning something that did nothing but eat and sleep and cough up hairballs. But James adored the little minx, so she'd been willing to try. Willing to put up with the cat fur that clung perpetually to all her outfits, that even the dry cleaners couldn't completely remove. With the musky odor that permeated the house. Willing to share responsibility for feeding Missy, and for changing the litter box. Willing to do nearly anything to make this relationship work.

It had started with little things. Behaviors she would never have suspected were anything other than natural to cats. The way that Missy stared at her when she cuddled with James, or how her head would turn to track her whenever she entered a room. Twining around her legs when she walked, tripping her and sending her papers sprawling over the carpet. Jumping on the counter while she cooked, startling her into spilling an entire box of rice into the pot of boiling water. Nibbling on her plants. Curling up in the sink when she went to brush her teeth and refusing to move. Nothing sinister to make her realize the actions were calculated to drive her away from James. James had explained that cats were territorial, that Missy just needed to adjust to sharing the house with another human, and she had accepted that.

Over the next week she began to have her doubts of how innocent Missy's actions really were. She'd come home to find that Missy had gotten in to her drawer and shredded all her pantyhose. Missy would curl up in bed with them, so that the last thing she heard at night was the low rumbling purr and the last thing she saw was a pair of glowing amber eyes. She responded by locking Missy out of the bedroom, and James joked about how she was spooked by a black cat. She'd still been unwilling to believe, passing the incidents off as amusing tales to discuss at the office.

She found hairballs on papers left out overnight. A dead mouse in her briefcase. And Missy was always underfoot, always watching, staring at her with those wide inhuman eyes. That was the first real argument with James, when she claimed Missy was doing it deliberately, and James telling her not to be ridiculous. She knew how it sounded, tried to convince herself she was being paranoid. But during her lunch, she went to the pet store, and bought a collar with bell, so Missy couldn't sneak up on her. And she bought a water gun. Maybe that would teach Missy to keep her distance. It's only a cat, she told herself. Only a cat, repeated on the way home, as if repetition would make it true. She knew now how someone could believe all those superstitions about cats. That was the second fight with James, when she squirted Missy and the damned cat had screeched, scrambling away, and knocking over a lamp in the process. James had blamed her, and had spent the entire evening cosseting the conniving little demon.

Glasses of water left out were knocked over, soaking her things, and it was always her things and never James'. She'd come downstairs in the morning to find her ceramic pottery lying shattered on the floor, knocked off countertops and shelves. Her favorite earrings had gone missing. She found them a week later hidden in Missy's basket. James had laughed and Missy had purred. Lots of creatures like bright objects, he'd told her. Even the occasional human can't resist taking them, he'd said, kissing her forehead. What can you expect from an animal ruled entirely by instinct?

And so it had come to this. She'd tracked Missy down, determined to end this charade. The grinding of the sump pump covering the sound of her heart pounding, adjusting her sweat-slicked grip on the baseball bat, she'd descended into the dark unfinished basement. It's only a cat, she'd chanted under her breath, a charm to ward off danger.

And then she'd heard James voice calling her from above. Of all the days to come home early, he had to pick today. She'd eased back into the shadows, knowing he would never approve of her killing Missy.

Light flared when he flicked the switch, and she'd jerked back, turning her head away. Something connected with the back of her head, and she'd collapsed forward, falling roughly onto the concrete. James' voice seemed to come from far away. "I can't believe she thought a cat could do all that. It figures. I do all the work, and you get all the credit." He sighed.