Page 137 of Last Girl Standing

“Why? Do I not look okay?”

“No, it’s just, has something happened? You seem . . . lighter?” she asked hopefully.

“Really? No. Do you have something for dinner for Owen? I’m sorry. I’m running so late.”

Her mother flapped a hand at her. “Dad’s still at the store. Owen and I will get something when we pick him up.”

Owen wouldn’t let go of her hand. Delta waited patiently, even though a part of her wanted to get to Amanda’s right away.

“Mommy, don’t leave.”

“Okay. Let me make a phone call.”

* * *

Amanda’s phone rang. She heard it through a watery blur. She was on the floor. A wooden floor with a rug. Her dining room.

She’d left the phone on the table when she’d gone in search of the noise.

Noise . . . garage . . . attack!

Her whole body jerked at the memory. She almost opened her eyes but remained still, afraid, aware that she needed to keep feigning unconsciousness or . . . She quivered all over, couldn’t stop herself.

Faint voices. On the back patio?

“. . . lure them here,” an unidentified male voice said.

A female voice answered. Quietly. Too quietly.

“What do you want me to do with her?” the man asked.

Again, the female voice was ultra soft. Did she know Amanda was listening?

The phone. If she could get the phone.

She tried to lift her head. It felt like it was splitting apart. Her hand reached up. She raised her body as much as she could. Fumbled around atop the table. A page fluttered down, and her pen rolled off and thumped softly on the carpet.

Amanda’s hand closed around the pen. The paper was nearby. She wrote without looking, painfully writing down a name. Her hand drooped. She wanted to say something more. A message to Delta. An apology . . . in case . . . in case . . .

She scribbled below the name, but as she reached for the paper, intending to hide it—where? On her person? Under the edge of the carpet?—the paper rrrriiiippped.

She slid the piece she still grasped under the carpet, searched around and grabbed the other.

“What sound?” the guy asked.

Footsteps approaching.

Amanda closed her fist over the scrap of paper she possessed, crumpling it.

“The bitch is trying to write a warning note,” the female voice said now, not bothering to hide her voice.

Amanda kept her eyes closed, silently praying.

“Thank your husband for the keys,” the voice whispered in Amanda’s ear as her fist was pried open, the crumpled slip of paper removed. Then, “My name, huh. Who’re you trying to tell?”

“We good here?” the man asked.

“Finish it,” was the cold answer.

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