Then, in the way of dreams, Michael’s face changed and he became Nick DiSalvo, and he took the shears from her hand and shoved her hard onto the bed and away from the body on the floor. The second thwack took a few moments to sink into her subconscious. And then, slowly, reluctantly, she eased out of sleep. The third time, she realized that somebody had tossed a hard object against her window screen. On the floor at the foot of the bed, Elvis raised his head, pricked his ears, and growled menacingly. She got up from the bed, wrapped her robe around her, and padded cautiously to the window. “Hey, McAllister,” Nick DiSalvo said from the shadows at the edge of the lawn. “You snore loud enough to wake the dead.” Her stomach turned inside out. A bittersweet joy went ricocheting through her, and she quickly tamed it into submission. She knelt in front of the sill and raised the window screen. “It wasn’t me snoring,” she said, “it was Elvis. What in hell are you doing here, DiSalvo?”
