She never closed the curtains—there was an office building across the road, and no one was there after business hours, so she felt no need for privacy. The reflection of ground-level neon and streetlights faded to a pale grayness by the time it reached her third-story window, but it was enough to show her an empty room. The monk had not come to sit beside her bed.Because, something screamed in her head, it was not the monk. The Carthusian meant her no harm. She was convinced of that. This . . . whatever . . . was a malevolent something.The footsteps receded, presumably heading toward the back bedroom.She consciously made herself move first one leg, then the other. She sat up. The jeans and sweatshirt she’d been wearing earlier were on a nearby chair. Annie pulled both on over the gray T-shirt. Her running shoes, all her shoes, were in the armoire across the room, but a pair of flip-flops did duty as slippers, and they were beside the bed. She started to put them on, then thought better of it and shoved them into the front pocket of the sweatshirt.
