Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
I moved toward the other side of the back porch, careful not to knock over the pooper-scooper leaned against the wall of the house.
I knocked lightly at first, praying maybe he was up, or the dog would alert him.
But nothing.
Wincing, I knocked louder.
Then louder still.
My heartbeat was thudding in my ears as I stood there waiting, feeling way too exposed, too vulnerable.
I took a few steps toward the edge of the deck. But I stood there for what felt like hours, battling against my own panic.
Finally, I forced myself to look over.
I saw nothing at first.
But then a car turned down the street, their headlights momentarily lighting up the yard.
And right there, just a few feet from the police cruiser, was a body.
Oh, God.
Was that the cop?
Uncle Stan?
Where was the other person?
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.
And there was a very good chance that Uncle Chuck was with my father somewhere, working on this case.
What was my next move?
Where did I go when everyone I had to rely on was missing?
But, this wasn’t everyone, was it?
There was still one person left I knew would protect me, who had protected me before, would do so again if I was in need.
Regardless of how he’d left town without another word.
I had no purse, no money, no IDs.
If I got pulled over, I was in big trouble.
But I couldn’t seem to make myself give a shit.
All I could think about was him.
So I turned my car in the direction of Navesink Bank.
I was going to ask August again for help.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
August
I woke up the morning after leaving Traveler in the care of her father to find my mother already in my kitchen.
Coffee was fresh.
The sweet scent of pancakes mingled with the more hearty scents of eggs and sausage.
And she was already hard at work at some sort of pasta-based meal. Knowing my mom, likely more than one. To have in my fridge or freezer while I “settle back in.”
“There’s my boy,” my mom greeted me when she sensed my presence, turning with her arms raised, and a lifetime told me I was meant to approach her, so she could frame my face, then slap my cheeks a little hard, then kiss each of them. “Oh, no,” she said before her hands even touched me. “Are you sick? Did you pick something up on your trip?” she asked. “You have no color. Foreign food will do that,” she went on, as if I’d been out of the country, not an hour away. “You don’t have a fever,” she concluded after pulling me down toward her, so she could press her lips to my forehead.
She didn’t trust her hands for telling temperatures.
Giulia Grassi did things her own way.
Including breaking into her sons’ homes to fuss over them.
“I’m fine, Ma,” I assured her. “Just a little beat,” I said, making my way toward the coffee machine.
“It’s hard to sleep well when you’re not in your own bed,” she said. “Are you home for good now? We need to do your birthday.”