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manage the family finances. Widowhood had been a hard blow to Iris Harper, but the sale of her home and loss of her cleaning lady, bridge club, car, charitable committees, affiliation with the suburban church and its women’s functions, membership in the country club, its golf course, and all the things that had summed up her identity to herself—all these losses had wiped out an entire personality.
    She closed herself away from her unfamiliar neighbors into the little house in a redevelopment section. Leah and Annette took over the younger Suzie and everything else, and worried every minute they were away from their mother. But Iris just watched TV, talked to her cats, drank, vegetated, grayed.… Until a week ago.…
    Leah washed quickly and stepped out of the tub. Perhaps in sleep she could find forgetfulness.
    When her father died, Leah discovered that the mother she’d considered a pillar of strength was not. Leah had been surprised at how unsettling this discovery had been. When Iris took her own life, her daughter strengthened her resolve never to depend on anyone but herself.
    There was a scratching at the door as she left the bathroom. “Oh, no, you don’t. I said good-bye, remember?”
    She ignored the plaintive yowl and slipped into a nightgown. Checking the watch in her purse, she found it was only nine thirty in the morning.
    The Siamese had moved to the windowsill, staring in at her with evil slanted eyes framed by the metal rims of the picture window; the barren cemetery with old-fashioned gray headstones provided a haunting background for the “evil eye.”
    How had he come to adopt Leah? Had he been dumped from a yellow Volkswagen? Had he hopped into the next one that came along? Or did Leah resemble a former owner? Maybe the food hadn’t suited at home. Food was obviously at the top of his priority list.
    Leah closed the drapes and crawled into bed, lay listening to the noise and prowlings at the window and at the door.
    Goodyear did not have the fine aristocratic bone structure of a true Siamese. Although she thought of him as Siamese because of his coloring and markings, his bones were built more along the lines of alley-massive. He was probably the result of a chance encounter between a treasured purebred and a big back-street torn.
    A dog—it sounded large and very near—growled low in its throat. Goodyear hissed. Leah leapt from the bed.
    The cat collided with her ankles the minute she opened the door. She stood looking at a German shepherd with a surprised expression on his face and blood dripping from his nose. The dog turned and ran.
    Goodyear calmly washed himself on her bed.
    â€œLooks like I’ve been taken in again,” Leah muttered and locked the door. “You were in about as much danger as a.… Oh, just turn off your motor so I can get some sleep.” She lay down again and tried to feel some ribs through lush fur. The ribs were well padded with fat.
    But the fur was soft, squishy, warm. It felt soothing under her hand, accompanied by the loud purring, the scratchiness of the animal’s tongue as it extended its washing to her wrist.
    â€œYou can take on a German shepherd but just get chummy with a murderer. Someday when I can afford a pet, it’s going to be a dog.” But she continued to stroke the luxurious coat. It had the tactile allure of rich velvet or worry beads.
    Leah went to sleep, still seeing the haphazard dark knots on the pine walls surrounding her and thinking of the tall, cruel man who had tied her to a bed. He’d automatically stroked the cat, too.
    She awoke to a persistent sound she could not at first identify. Goodyear lay curled in the hollow of her arm.
    Someone was knocking at the door. She pulled her coat over her nightgown and slid the safety chain into place. A man stood outside the slit the chain allowed, but he was not dark and threatening.
    â€œLeah Harper?” A stiff, mechanical