Page 103 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

I heard Traveler’s sucked in breath, and couldn’t tell if it was because of her father’s state, or her friend’s betrayal.

I, for one, wasn’t exactly surprised by what we were looking at.

I couldn’t think of a single good reason for the woman’s bracelet to be at Stan’s place unless he was literally in bed with her.

I had no idea if Traveler’s insistence on her friend’s innocence and possible abduction was just because she wanted it to be true, or because she was too far removed from the criminal world to understand how shit worked.

Like how you didn’t take tokens home from people you kidnapped, leaving it carelessly on display in an otherwise meticulously organized apartment.

Stan’s takeout menus were organized by food type and then alphabetical order in his drawer.

Guys like that didn’t leave evidence of their crimes sitting on their nightstands.

Traveler didn’t want to hear that, though. And standing with her, feeling her almost vibrating with emotion, I wondered if that was the wrong move. Not telling her my thoughts. Especially after the kid at Sheryl’s house. Who walked in confidently. Like he belonged there. Like he was completely comfortable with the layout and his right to be there.

I’d given that kid good advice.

Get out while you can.

Because anyone who cracked under so slight of pressure was not going to live to see their twenty-first birthday.

If Traveler had any concerns about Sheryl’s involvement in this situation, they were wiped away by her friend’s words.

Well well well… look who finally figured it out.

There was so much fucking condescension in her tone, too.

I’d never wanted to slap a woman before, but I wanted to smack that smirk off her face as she stared at a woman who just had her whole world pulled out from under her.

The thing was, Travelerwasn’tsomeone who necessarily saw the best in people. Daughter of a dirty cop, running a business in an area overrun with dealers and other criminals, she didn’t get the luxury of naïveté about the human condition.

So the fact that she did let her guard down and befriend someone, someone she thought she had so much in common with—something evidenced by Sheryl’s hippie home that looked like the kind of place Traveler would feel right at home—and then found that said friend had been doing nothing but lying to her for years, yeah, that sucked.

And this woman was fucking gloating about it.

“Travy, go,” her father demanded, voice rough and raspy.

He looked… rough.

Stan and Sheryl had their mitts on him for hours, and clearly had spent most of that time torturing him.

His face was bloodied, bruised, and swollen.

His chest was a mess of cuts and blood, of bruises over his ribcage.

I imagined his back looked similar.

Had to give the man credit, he was a tough old fuck. He wasn’t giving in, giving them whatever it was that they wanted from him.

“And you brought a friend,” Sheryl said, her gaze moving over me, stopping on my gun. “You can put that down now.”

“No fucking way,” I said, my free hand moving out to Traveler, trying to tuck her behind me, but she wasn’t cooperating.

“I knew you were a traitorous shithead,” Traveler said, surprising me with how strong her voice was as she addressed her ‘uncle.’

“Not until it was too late, you didn’t,” he said, his gaze going to her throat.

“I’m surprised,” Traveler said, acting like he hadn’t spoken at all as she turned her gaze toward Sheryl. There was venom on her tongue as she spoke.

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