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Cassandra blows me a kiss and mouths the words back, then slips out the door. In my head, I begin a countdown clock for when she should be expected back and pray for the best.
28
CASSANDRA
The bite of the early night wind in November is a welcome sting.
I’ve been alone for most of my adult life. Not alone in the sense that I don’t have friends to keep me company or family to call on if I need them, but alone in that, I’ve moved through life independently. I’m used to not having to answer to someone when I make decisions and take joy in moving freely to do whatever I want.
Adding Patrick into the equation is something I love and am grateful for, but the break-ins and threats have essentially made it so that I can’t have a good balance of both. While spending all my time with him is something I’ve loved doing in the honeymoon stage, I’m ready for a bit of freedom from him and our predicament.
Of course, he’s smart to be cautious, to get anxious about letting me venture mere feet to pick up some flour. But the PI hasn’t given us any reason to assume they weren’t just awful pranks, and I need a bit of freedom, even if it’s just three minutes.
Which is exactly what I get as I stroll back to Hope Pizza, lugging two sacks of flour. I know it might only get Nonna through the night, but it’s not like the small market on Newton Street has carts, and I didn’t want to bother one of the teenagers by asking them to help me walk more back. Would kind of defeat the point of my solo time.
I roll my shoulders, and even though they’re loaded down with the weight of the objects in my arms, they feel light. Tonight might be a headache in Patrick’s mind, but I crave this kind of happy chaos. Buzzing around the restaurant, helping his family, and chatting with locals was a much-needed couple of hours. The feeling I got on set had been replicated to an extent, and waitressing was my stage for the night.
Add that to this little meander down the street lit with turkeys hung on the street poles, and I’m feeling practically giddy.
A couple I recognize from the bar outing with Patrick waves at me from the other side of the street and I smile back. Hope Crest is becoming my home, I am becoming part of the Ashton clan, and even with the obstacles in my way, I’ve honestly never been happier. Grinning alone like a fool in public wasn’t my thing, but I guess it is now.
Turning to lug the two bricks of flour into the back entrance, I turn down the small alleyway. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and it’s probably Patrick checking to see where I am.
That momentary glance down at my pants is all it takes for the person to disorient me, flying at me head-on in all-black clothing.
One second, I’m walking next to the brick side wall of Hope Pizza, and the next second, my cheek is scraping it so hard, I can taste blood. Or maybe that’s from the bite-size gash on the inside of my mouth from the force of how hard I hit it.
I feel the flour sacks hit my feet, exploding around us as I try to stifle the cough from the white clouds lodging in my nose. I try to struggle for one second, but it’s useless. Whoever this is has me pinned up against the brick, my head spinning from the collision. They have a lot of weight on me and are taller, that much I can tell. But I can’t seem to focus, trying to collect myself or move for the pepper spray in my pocket.
My cough escapes, and I try to follow it with a yell, or maybe Patrick’s name, but the flour in my mouth won’t let me, and the assailant presses against the back of my neck until my breath starts coming in short, frantic breaths.
“Don’t make a fucking sound.” A snarl so close to my ear has every hair on my body standing up straight.
Everything in me freezes as I try to place the voice and to take stock of where I am and who can see or hear me. It’s odd; I always thought I’d never be able to think in these scenarios, that my mind would be outside of itself and just begging not to lose my life. I’ve acted this scene out rather often in certain movies, and this is nothing like that.
Of course, it’s not, my inner monologue comes out at the worst time. Right now, I’m just trying to measure everything. Can I get my pepper spray? The second I move, whoever this is will surely strike some part of my body, and I have no clue if I’ll be able to spray them. I hold off, hoping that someone comes upon us.
“You little bitch, always with those stupid fucking Ashtons protecting you. Like you’re their princess, their new crown jewel.” The voice is angry and raspy but too low for me to get a good grasp on the accent or cadence.
“Ple—” I try, but that only makes him—I think it’s a man—angrier.
With the arm not pinning me by the neck to the brick, he uses his fist to punch me so hard in the ribs I see white hot pain. I twist, trying to get away from the intensity of it burning in my gut, but that only makes my cheek scrape the wall harder.
“I thought celebrities like you didn’t beg for anything. Not like your father did. No, Butch begged for attention every time he ruined someone’s life.”
My father. I should have known. I did, in some part of my brain. But whoever this is just confirmed I’m still a score to settle for old sins that weren’t even my own.
“That prick ruined us. And now you’ll pay. You want me to leave you to your precious Ashtons? Five hundred thousand. That’s what I want. Cash.”
“I—” I wheeze, and he taps my temple with his finger, demonstrating that I’m at his mercy.
“Don’t even try to tell me you can’t get it. We both know some watch or necklace in your house is worth that. I want it in cash, by Friday. Leave it in the kayak shack down by Stoller Bridge. You bring anyone, you tell anyone, you try to tip off the cops again, I’ll sneak into that guesthouse and slit his throat.”
My body is arctic I freeze up so badly.
The laugh that echoes in my eardrum is sinister and low. “You don’t think I watch as you go into that house together? That I don’t know you think you’re safe on their property. I can get you anywhere, princess.”
The thought of this person harming Patrick in any way has me feeling desperate and unhinged. I’m about to try for the spray, no matter the outcome, when a sound comes from the end of the alleyway, and he freezes in his tapping at my temple as if he was driving the point home.
