Page 85 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

“I was attacked,” she said, voice small. Whether that was from shock, upset, or the fact that the woman had been fuckingstrangledwas anyone’s guess.

“I see that,” I said, trying to force my voice to be calm. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” I asked, seeing bruises forming on her face, but there wasn’t enough swelling that I was worried about anything being broken.

“I need your phone,” she said, clarity finally breaking through her gaze. “Mine was missing.Please,” she begged.

I wasn’t going to get anywhere with her if I pushed her.

“Okay,” I said, turning to rush back into the kitchen, coming back with my cell, and handing it over.

She dialed with shaky hands, and lifted it to her ear.

“Come on come on come on,” she hissed. But the call clearly went to voicemail. She wasn’t giving up, though, dialing again. Then again. Then, finally, leaving a message. “Dad, it’s me. Please call me back.”

Then she tried a text.

Then another.

“Hey, tell me what’s going on, so I can help,” I demanded, reaching to cover the phone and her hands with my own.

Taking a deep breath, she winced, then coughed a little, but nodded.

“I went home after work with my Uncle Stan—“

“I didn’t think you had family,” I said. It wasn’t the time for family trees, but I couldn’t seem to help myself.

“My dad has friends that he went through the Academy with. Chuck, Don, and Stan. They’re taking turns keeping an eye on me while he does… whatever he’s been doing. Chuck was with me all night, then we met Don at the store. Don was supposed to stay with me, but he had a family emergency. So it was just me and Stan going back to my house. And a patrol car.”

“Okay,” I said, nodding when she paused.

“I went to take a shower while we waited for food to be delivered. When I came out, the food had been delivered and was on the counter, but Stan was missing. I walked out back to call him, to see where he went, and that’s when I was attacked,” she said.

“Baby, details,” I demanded softly.

“I was hit,” she said, motioning toward her face. “Then I fell off the porch, and was dragged back up and into the house by my hair,” she said.

“Did you see the attacker?” I asked, knowing that getting the details when they were as fresh as possible was key.

“No,” she admitted, jaw going tight. “He pulled me into my room by my hair, then climbed on my back and started to strangle me. I, ah, I assumed that he wouldn’t know how long it actually took to strangle someone to death, so I kind of… played dead.”

“Smart,” I said, stomach twisting, making bile rise up my throat. “What then?”

“Then he… left,” she told me. “I waited for a while to make sure, then I grabbed a knife and moved out back to try to wake up my neighbor and have him let me in since my phone was gone.”

“That didn’t work?” I asked.

“He’s old and was probably asleep. And then… then I looked around the house. And I saw a body on the ground. I don’t know if it was Stan or the cop. Or what happened to the other one of them,” she said, words tripping over each other now. “Then I heard footsteps. And I just… ran. Stan’s car was on the street. I had grabbed the fob. So I just got in it and sped out of there.”

“Good. That was smart. And then?”

“I drove around looking for my dad and my other uncles. But no one was home or at the station. And I just… I didn’t know where else to go,” she said, looking up at me with big doe eyes that seemed to immediately make that black hole inside my chest close up and disappear.

“No, of course you should come here,” I said, reaching out to tuck some of her hair behind her ear. “Come on,” I said, reaching to take her hand, and leading her over to sit. “The question now is what do you want to do?” I asked.

“I… I need to find my father,” she said, nodding at that decision. “I don’t know why he’s not answering. What if something—“

“Let’s not go to the dark place just yet, okay?” I suggested. “Maybe he’s busy knocking down doors or knocking heads together,” I said. “Especially if he is with one or more of your uncles. Do you know their numbers by heart?”

“No,” I admitted. “We haven’t really been very close. I only ever saw them when I was with my father. I only saw him two weekends a month, and saw them maybe every three or four months when I was visiting. Then when I grew up, even less. They stopped into the shop more when it first opened, but not so much since my dad and I had a falling out.”

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