Page 8 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

It was getting worse.

Ever since the fuckhead who used to run this area died, a completely different crew moved in with this new shit full of life-ruiners mixed with fucking horse tranquilizer. And then… the “zombies.” And the wounds.

This crew dealing it wasn’t local, either. They came over from Philly. So they were barely toeing the line about fucking with the local establishments.

They’d stashed some of their supply in the back of Sheryl’s truck once when the cops came down the street.

God, she’d been furious about it, too.

Confronted some of the guys.

And they’d beaten the shit out of her for it.

Bastards.

They weren’t welcome in my shop. They knew it. Sheryl knew it. That was why she still decided to come, even though the attack had made her much more of a recluse lately. Happy just to pitter around in the garden at the house her grandmother had left to her a few years before.

She was probably in her mid-forties, though I hadn’t asked, with skin that got tanner as the summer burned on, dark eyes, and dark brown hair that she almost always had in a braid.

Anytime I saw her, she was in long, filmy skirts of bright colors—orange and yellow were my favorite on her—vegan leather brown sandals, and a dozen or so bracelets on her arms, all made by her sweet little nieces.

“Unbelievable,” Sheryl grumbled as she followed my gaze. “They know they can’t come in here, so they do that shit out front, so people feel weird about coming in.”

“That’s okay. The locals know to come here,” I said. “Who cares if they keep the city guys away?”

“That’s true,” she agreed.

It was a mediocre day of sales.

I was actually glad to finally close up a bit early that night. If I stayed open later, people would just park for hours, not buying anything. My time would be better served doing my baking ahead of time instead of in the morning before work.

I wasn’t much of a sleeper anyway.

I locked the doors, dimmed the lights, and decided to do a deep clean of the front of the cafe for an hour or so before cutting the lights entirely, and moving into the back.

I’d just wiped down the surfaces when I heard it.

A hard crack that had my heart stuttering in my chest as my brain tried to figure out what it was.

But then it happened again.

A louder crack.

Someone was breaking in.

I should have pulled down the security gates before I moved into the back. But I never needed to. I had a certain amount of protection in this building. In my life in general.

That was the perk of having your dad as the chief of police.

Sure, he was as crooked as crooked got, but that also gave him the power to extend protection toward me. No matter how nasty I got to the local crews. And, yeah, I had never been good at holding my tongue when I crossed their paths.

This new crew, though, I had no idea if they greased my father’s pockets. If they gave a single fuck about the rules.

I was about to turn and run toward the back door where my purse and keys were on a hook, and my truck was parked in the alley for a quick exit, when I heard more noise out there.

Male laughter.

And the unmistakable sound of glass shattering.

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