Page 113 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

That Sheryl was dead.

That I’d been the one to kill her.

I mean, it had to happen. I knew that if she’d been a man and not a woman, the guys would have taken her out. But their chivalry had gotten the best of them in that moment, forcing me to put an end to it.

I wasn’t someone who thought murder wasalwayswrong.

In fact, I believed the world would be better if certain people were in the ground. Serial pedophiles or rapists, for example.

And I did believe we were all capable of killing someone in the right situation. There was no denying that it had been an us-or-them scenario.

The only part I was really struggling with was the fact that Sheryl had, for a very long time, been a friend. Even if she’d been faking it all along, that didn’t change the experiences I’d had, the feelings that I’d connected to those experiences.

Honestly, if I really thought about it, I would say that in a way, Sheryl had become almost a surrogate mom figure to me when mine up and left town when I was old enough to be on my own. She’d been a steady older female figure in my life. Someone who had warmth, who I shared common interests with.

Clearly, too, that wasn’t all fake.

She did garden.

She did go to the farmer’s market.

She did volunteer in the community.

True, it was very possible that it was all just a carefully curated persona to keep her off the local police radar, but still. It felt real to me at the time.

My mind was trying to run through every one of our interactions, looking for cracks, trying to pry them open to see what was hidden beneath.

“It was Sheryl who screwed with my cameras inside the shop,” I said, looking over at August.

“Yeah, I came to that conclusion too.”

“And that story about getting drugs thrown in her truck, and getting beat up when she confronted the dealers, that was all bullshit.”

“More likely she and some other kingpin in the area got into it,” August agreed.

A deep sigh escaped me, prompting August to rub his hand up and down my arm.

“What is it?” he asked.

“She was the only person I had,” I said. “I wasn’t even on speaking terms with my father, which meant I wasn’t speaking to my uncles either. So she was all I had. And it was all… fake.”

“I can’t say anything to make that better,” August said, giving me a squeeze. “But she’s not all you have anymore,” he added. “And I don’t just mean you have your father and uncles,” he added. When I said nothing, it was his turn to sigh. “Hey, sugar tits?” he called, getting a small laugh out of me.

“What?”

“In case that wasn’t clear enough, I’m saying you got me. And by ‘got me,’ I mean I wouldn’t be opposed to you just… not going home,” he said.

Oh, God.

My heart, so bruised from the events of the past few days, felt suddenly healed.

“Yeah?” I asked, voice small, not wanting to get my hopes too high without some reassurance.

“Yeah. I mean, I get you’re probably fucking allergic to this place,” he said, waving a hand around. “Not a single tile or wood plank in this place is recycled,” he teased. “But this was always just a transition place while I found a home.”

“Are you saying you want me around long enough to… move into a different place with you?” I asked, face scrunching up, cringing at the emotional vulnerability I felt right then.

I wasn’t good with that. Being exposed. Opening up. I had such little experience with it. Especially with men.

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