{GIANNA}
I wave goodbye to my boss, Janet, and trudge up the steps of the small townhouse. It's owned by her son, but he's no longer in the city, and she insists I stay here—or move in with her. Sweet old lady. Too damn sweet.
As I reach the door, my gaze catches on the black car with the tinted windows slowly driving down the road. My stomach tightens. I don't need to see the plate number to know it's the same one that always seems to be around when I get home—no matter the time.
I swallow down the unease and push into the house, unable to suppress the small sigh of relief as the warmth from the overworked heater envelops me. The contrast between the biting October chill and the cocoon of heat makes my skin prickle pleasantly. I waddle to the kitchen and prepare my latest bizarre concoction: a steaming mug of onion, garlic, and mustard tea.
