Walking home at night, her heels clicking on the pavement.
Yesterday he’d watched her walk into the underpass, her bag swinging with each firm stride and the shadows of passing cars flickered over the graffiti. There was something about her – her face, her legs, her smell.
He’d watched but not followed.
Today when she passed his hideout, he hesitated before slipping from the bushes to follow her underground.
They were almost through the underpass before she knew he was there and turned, mouth open in an O of surprise.
“You look half-starved, poor little dog. You come home with me.”