Page 76 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

At least, that was what I had to believe.

Because if I was on my own, I didn’t have a lot of hope.

I liked to think that I had street smarts and good instincts. But I wasn’t a fighter. I’d never needed to be.

I thought sometimes that if I were ever to be attacked, that some innate instinct would kick in, some feral desire to claw, bite, kick, scream, fight my way out of it.

In reality, though, it all felt like it was happening too quickly to think, let alone move.

I felt as helpless as a baby as I was dragged back up onto my back porch, my back knocking against each step as we went.

My hands shot upward, grabbing at the fist wrapped around my hair, trying to claw his fingers off. When that failed, I scraped my nails against skin.

There was a hiss of pain, but the grip only tightened.

I was vaguely aware of the screen door whacking against the side of the house it was thrown open so hard before my body was moving into the kitchen.

The kitchen was good, though, right?

A kitchen meant knives, forks, heavy pots and pans. Things I could use to defend myself with.

In a moment of clarity, I threw out my hands, grabbing the doorway of my bedroom as I was pulled past it.

My shoulders ached as my attacker tried to keep pulling me.

I held tight, though, even as the screaming across my scalp intensified.

Then just like that, the pain stopped as the hand dropped my hair.

I curled toward the doorframe, pulling myself into my bedroom.

My only clear thought was getting away, slamming the door, then… I don’t know. Climbing out the window? Finding my phone and calling my father? Something. Anything.

I pushed up onto my hands and knees, and was halfway into my room when a kick landed to my hip, sending me flying, my head whacking off of my dresser.

Before I could even push up again to try to scramble away, though, a weight pressed down on me.

The full weight of a man on my hips, pinning me to the ground.

I thrashed and writhed to no avail, feeling freedom slipping away by the second.

My heart was hammering, pounding in my chest, throat, and ears.

I sucked in a breath, ready to finally scream for help.

And that was the exact moment hands closed around my throat, squeezing, cutting off my ability to scream, to breathe.

No.

No.

This was not going to be how it ended.

Strangled to death in my own bedroom.

Fear surged through my system as I tried to suck in a breath and failed.

I wasn’t sure what the rankings were of the worst ways to die. But being slowly strangled to death was completely fucking terrifying while you were experiencing it.

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