Page 2 of Target Me
In the classifieds that morning, I’d come across a farmhouse for sale. Even in the picture, I could tell the roof was sagging, and I could only guess how much work it would need. In the middle of a graveyard, confronted with the question of “what next”, I decided I would buy the house. Renovate the shit out of it and maybe build a hobby farm or something. Idle hands were supposed to be the devil’s playground and all, so the project would do me good.
“Thank you, sir, but I don’t think I’m cut out for protection detail.”
He grunted, his face set in an expression I’d seen too many times to trust. This wasn’t the last I’d hear of it, and the thought was as frustrating as it was comforting.
“It’s your fucking fault! He didn’t kill himself. I know he didn’t—”
The General and I spun in unison, acting like the well-trained soldiers we were as we reached for weapons we wouldn’t find on our ceremonial garb. The disturbance had caused many of the funeral attendees to pause in the process of entering their cars to gawk at the spectacle that had been building since we arrived.
Damon was frantic, lunging against the hold Bear had around his middle and cursing out anyone who got too close. His bloodshot eyes rolled in his head, his tie was loose, and buttons were already missing from his shirt. His breath huffed audibly through his nose as Bear slapped a meaty palm over his mouth.
“Come on, man. Don’t be like this. Adrien wouldn’t want this. Look. Charlie can hear you. She doesn’t need this shit today. You lost your brother, but she lost her husband, too.”
“I’d better go help with that,” I muttered apologetically.
General Walker nodded and moved off toward a shiny black SUV that screamed future president, while I turned back to my drunken, grief-stricken friend.
“Hey, man, let’s get in my car, and I’ll take you home to bed.” Bear maneuvered Damon into the backseat of my truck and strapped him in before climbing into the passenger side. As we pulled away from the cemetery, Damon seemed to run out of steam, sagging in his skin. It made him appear older than his twenty-eight years.
“They fucking killed him,” he muttered, so quietly I could barely hear him over the engine. I tossed a glance at Bear, who shrugged and checked the rearview to find Damon already passed out. Safe in the company of his brothers-in-arms.
1
AVERY
Something wasn’t right.
The thought occurred to me as I dropped my load of shopping bags inside the front door. More and more over the past week, I’d developed this paranoia. This feeling, like my every move was under constant surveillance. In the middle of a crowded mall, I found myself cataloging faces, wondering if the man with a baseball cap had been in the previous store with me. If the woman in the business suit was watching me when I wasn’t looking.
Being home alone was the worst. The sprawling property my father had insisted on buying was beautiful during the day. An entertainer’s paradise where men with big wallets could flaunt their wealth in a dick-measuring competition that I would rather have avoided if my role weren’t always to play hostess.
Since my mother had made it out, I had taken over the role ofwoman of the house, and I often wondered if I could be free too if only I had the courage to be less than the perfect version of a daughter my father wanted to show the world.
Yes, by day the property was lovely.
At night, the trees seemed to hum with ominous energy, as though thousands of eyes shone from the shadows in waiting. For what? I didn’t know, but I’d taken to drawing the curtains before sunset, like they could shield me from the things that go bump in the night.
“Father? Are you home?” I called, moving into the kitchen. A pile of mail sat in the center of the clean counter, and beside it, a perfectly penned note informing me my father would be gone for the next three days. Not a great surprise. He was due to hit the campaign trail at the beginning of next month and had increasingly chosen to stay in the city, which I would usually love. Not so much when it left me in an empty house while I was feeling like this.
Shaking off the sense of unease, I pulled a pre-cut serving of lasagna from the refrigerator, silently blessing Luciana for leaving a decent-sized portion for me. Her cooking was second to none, and the reminder that I could enjoy it without my father’s disapproving gaze went a long way toward comforting me.
Setting the microwave to work its magic, I distracted myself by shuffling through the envelopes littering the counter. Two were addressed to my father, one was a bill, junk mail, junk mail, junk mail… The last envelope was blank. Heavy.
Frowning, I pushed the discarded mail aside and leaned my elbows on the counter, wondering if I should have left it for my father. After a moment of contemplation, I tore it open and flinched at the sound of metal hitting the granite countertop.
“What…?”
A key glinted up at me. One that looked suspiciously like the one I had just used to open the front door. Digging into the ripped envelope, I found a small slip of paper that read “watch your back” in black sharpie.
I glanced around. The kitchen felt larger and more ominous than before.
“It’s probably a prank,” I muttered, even as I crossed to the French doors that led out to the patio and pulled the curtains across.
A flash of movement made me pause just before I closed the gap completely, but a prolonged survey of the outdoor furniture, rolling lawn, and tree line showed all was still. With a decisive tug, I cut off the view of the yard and almost jumped out of my skin at the loud rattling that announced an incoming call on my cell.
The phone fell silent as I reached for my purse but immediately started up again. Someone wanted to speak to me, not my voicemail. A moment later, my hand came across the jiggling device, and I caught a glimpse of my father’s name as I connected the call.
“Where the hell are you?”
