Page 75 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

“Morton’s,” he said, naming an expensive restaurant in the nicer area of town that was famous for very small, but high quality steaks with basic sides like asparagus or green beans. And… that was it.

“Okay,” I agreed, bringing up the menu where I decided on a salad, got Stan his steak and beans, then went to take a shower to try to wash my bad mood down the drain.

I changed into yoga pants and a tee, tied up my hair, and moved out into the kitchen, smelling the food already.

There it was on the counter in the kitchen.

But Stan wasn’t around.

“Stan?” I called, walking into the living room, but not finding him there either. “Stan?” I asked, walking back toward the kitchen. “Where’d you go?” I mumbled to myself as I reached my back door, wondering if he stepped outside for a phone call or something.

I realized my mistake just a second too late.

When something slammed into my head.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Traveler

My head turned quickly, making the blow slam into the top of my cheek rather than its intended target.

Still, the pain screamed through my skull, disorienting me for just a second too long.

Long enough for another blow to come at me, this time hitting my chin with enough force to send me flying to the side.

My heart plummeted as I felt the side of my foot against the edge of the top step. But there was no saving myself. No railing to stop my fall. Nothing to grab onto.

I was going to fall.

Then I was.

There was barely enough time to throw out my arms to prevent my face from whacking off the ground.

The impact still stole my breath, making me gasp over and over like a fish on land, but completely incapable of drawing in a breath.

The pressure on my chest overwhelmed my senses, made my brain not work properly.

Because, clearly, if I was thinking straight, I would have forced myself to get up, would have scrambled away.

The lack of oxygen must have been to blame because a hand was grabbing my ponytail, yanking so hard that white-hot sparks of pain spread across my scalp.

Only as my chest pulled from the ground did I seem capable of drawing in a deep breath. I did, the ache in my chest intensifying as I did so.

But I had to force it.

I needed to take a deep breath.

Then I needed to scream at the top of my lungs.

If Stan was around, he’d hear. Or the cop in the squad car.

If they were somehow taken out of commission, though, it could still alert my neighbor.

He wouldn’t come.

But he would call the police.

Someone would hear the call and tell my father.

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