Possess

sighed. She was so tired. Tired of fighting with everyone. Tired of having no one to confide in. Hector wasn’t exactly a confidant, and Peter would only get two seconds into a serious conversation about her feelings before the words “I love you” came spilling out of his mouth. Her dad had been her best friend. Now that he was gone and her mom had a revolving door of boyfriends, it was like she had no one to talk to.
    She glanced sidelong at her chauffeur. Maybe Matt understood? They’d been close once, a long time ago, and in a way, he’d also lost a parent. Although in his case it was to a dot-com millionaire who moved his mom to Dubai. Still, they must have been close since he’d lived with her for all those years after his parents divorced. When she left, it must have felt like she’d been ripped from his life too. Just like her dad.
    The truck slowed as Matt pulled into her driveway.
    “Are you going to Winter Formal?”
    His question caught her so off guard, she burst out laughing.
    “What’s so funny?”
    “I don’t do dances.”
    “Why not?”
    “Well, the lameness factor for starters.”
    “You ever been?”
    “Hell, no.”
    “Then you can’t judge.”
    Bridget shook her head. “Dude, are you applying for my mom’s job?”
    Matt ignored the jab. “You should go.”
    “To Winter Formal?”
    “Yeah. You should go with me.”
    Did he just invite himself to her school dance? “No way.”
    “Are you afraid?”
    “Of a dance? You’re kidding, right?”
    Matt looked right at her. There was a hint of a smile he couldn’t suppress. “Then prove me wrong.”
    Bridget wasn’t a complete moron. She knew when she was being played. Matt had found her sore spot: her inability to refuse a challenge.
    “Fine,” she said, meeting his steady gaze. “Hope you don’t mind a date in combat boots.”
    Matt smiled, flashing that lethal combination of perfect teeth and hazel eyes. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Eight
    B RIDGET DRAGGED HER BACKPACK THROUGH the front door and dropped it on the spiral carpet, then sank to the floor herself and leaned back, clicking the door into place. She reached up and bolted it. The way her day was going, it was only a matter of time before someone else showed up at the house: Monsignor, Father Santos, Matt Quinn. Nope, she was locking them all out.
    Bridget closed her eyes and sucked in slow, deep breaths. The house was so quiet. A-freaking-men.
    Maybe being grounded wouldn’t be so bad. It gave her an excuse to spend her time at home doing whatever she wanted. Yeah, this could be awesome. Like a break from everything. No chiding about Matt Quinn, no training with Monsignor, no voices in the walls . . .
    The silence was broken by the patter of feet—paws, to be exact—trotting across the hardwood floor in the dining room.
    Bridget’s eyes flew open and swept the room. She thought for sure she’d see an animal of some sort disappearing down the hall. But there was nothing. Just a gentle swoosh swoosh from the swinging door that led into the kitchen, as if something small had just pushed its way through.
    Bridget scrambled to her feet and crept to the kitchen door. Had the neighbor’s cat gotten in somehow? Bridget cringed. She hated Mr. Moppet, the Shaughnessys’ longhaired Burmese. Or maybe it was a rat? Bridget wasn’t sure which was worse. She slowly pushed the door open and heard the sound of scurrying feet again, this time more of a clacking sound as the animal padded across the cushiony linoleum flooring. It had to be Mr. Moppet, who was always wandering into open garage doors in the neighborhood. But how had he gotten inside the house? And more importantly, how was Bridget going to get him out?
    Bridget peeked around the door, hoping not to scare the stupid cat, but there was nothing there. No cat, no rat. Nothing.
    What the hell?
    She tiptoed into the kitchen. “Mr. Moppet,” she said, trying to sound nonthreatening. “Here, kitty, kitty. Here, stupid kitty who hates my freaking guts.”
    Silence. She checked the pantry, but the door was firmly latched. She checked under the table, behind the recycling bins, even under the sink. No Mr. Moppet. No nothing.
    Had she imagined the footsteps? Possible, but then why had the door been swinging back and forth like something had gone through?
    A sickening thought hit her. She’d heard animal noises in the walls at Mrs. Long’s house, grunting pigs and stomping hooves. Could this be the same