Page 97 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

Stan preferred lots of black when it came to decor. Black leather couch, black end and coffee tables, black countertops, black cabinets. Even surrounded by windows, I was sure the black swallowed up the light in the daytime.

At night, it created a lot of dark corners. Ones that Aurelio and August checked out before putting their guns away.

“Okay,” August said. “Let’s look for anything that might point us in a direction,” he added.

Aurelio nodded, moving down the hallway toward the extra bedroom that was set up as an office.

August started looking around the living room.

“Baby,” he called when I just stood there, frozen, in the kitchen. “You okay?”

“No,” I admitted, making him straighten. “No, I’m fucking furious,” I admitted. “I don’t know what to do about that.”

“Use it,” he suggested. “Rip this place apart. You would be the best person to find anything that is really off,” he reminded me.

“Right,” I agreed, nodding. “I, ah, I’ll check the bedroom.”

My numb legs did manage to carry me in there, but I stopped just inside the door, leaning against the wall, taking a few steadying breaths as my mind started to spin again.

Was that just because this was all just… too fucking much?

Or was this the cognitive issues Lettie had warned me of?

Was there really any way to tell the difference at this point?

I didn’t think there was.

The only thing I could do was try to focus through it, figure out what Stan was up to, where he might be hiding my father.

Once we rescued him—and my mind refused to focus on any other reality than one with him making it out of this clusterfuck of a situation—then I could determine if I was having side effects or not.

Until then, I was just going to have to deal with it.

I walked through the bedroom and straight for the closet, knowing that people tended to hide important documents in the primary bedroom, typically tucked away in a closet in some fireproof bag or safe.

Stan’s closet was reminiscent of my father’s with tons of expensive suits, leather shoes, silk ties, and watches. He also had an impressive collection of exercise clothing and exactlyoneset of sweats. For, I dunno, the one day of a year he would allow himself to just chill out, I guess.

I moved all the clothes out of the way, looking for any boxes or bags. I felt along the walls, looking for a seam for a hidden compartment, even if I felt like a complete lunatic for even thinking such a thing might exist.

But there was nothing.

On a grumble, I went into the bathroom, but that obviously had even less to go on. Except the fact that Stan had a strange compulsion to have three of everything. Three toothbrushes, three extra tubes of paste, three mouthwashes, and three bars of soap.

I got wanting a small backup supply so you didn’t run out of something, but the three thing was odd.

I moved back into the bedroom, going through the contents of one nightstand. Three notepads. Three pens. Three little packs of tissues.

I was about to check the other nightstand, sure I would find nothing but more threes of other things. Breath mints, condoms, remote controls.

Then I saw it.

The one thing in this entire apartment that was not only out of place, but didn’t belong to Stan.

“What the fuck?” I hissed to myself as I reached for the shiny, colorful thing, pulling it out from where it was half-wedged under one of those charger station things where Stan could power up his phone, tablet, and smartwatch all at once.

My fingers closed over it as I pulled it out.

I wasn’t even aware of my legs giving out on me until I felt myself bouncing on the edge of the bed.

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