Page 81 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

I rushed back toward the door, hammering my hand on it this time.

I heard nothing inside.

But I did hear something else.

Footsteps.

Coming from the yard on my side of the house.

I didn’t stop to think.

I rushed off of my neighbor’s back porch. Then, at a dead fucking run, rushed across the front yard as I frantically bleeped the unlock button on Stan’s key fob.

My chest, already so abused that night, ached and burned and made breathing hard as I rushed toward the door, opening it, and throwing myself inside.

I was quick enough to lock the doors before slamming my foot on the brake, then hitting the push start.

The engine came to life almost silently.

But the screech of the tires as I peeled out of the spot was loud as fuck.

It was okay.

I was okay.

Alive.

Safe, for the moment.

But there was no phone, no way to contact anyone.

I drove toward the police station, looking through the lot, but not seeing my father’s car.

I could just go in.

Tell them I’d been attacked.

Tell them one of their own had been attacked.

Which was true. Whether it was the uniformed cop or my uncle.

But my father was worried his attack had been at least assisted by someone on the force.

What if I went in there, and it only made things worse for us?

Stomach clenching, I drove out of the lot, making a few turns, then heading toward my father’s house instead.

But all the lights were off.

And his car wasn’t in the drive.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” I whimpered, turning the car again, this time going back toward the modest area of town, driving toward Uncle Don’s house. But like my father’s the lights were out and no one was home.

Same went for Uncle Chuck.

What the fuck was going on?

Panic welled up again, until I tried to remind myself that Uncle Don had had some sort of situation going on with his family that he needed to deal with.

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