Page 53 of The Woman in the Garage

As far as I could tell, there hadn’t been any other attempts to break into my house since that garage incident.

Unfortunately, that didn’t mean I wasn’t living in fear of it happening again.

It didn’t take a lot of thought to conclude that the most likely reason someone was snooping around was that they wanted both the paperwork for the units… and the keys.

I’d snapped pictures of the documents for the storage units, uploading them to a document storage website to make sure Inever lost the information. Then I found an extra keyring and moved all of the padlock keys to it.

I stored the keyring in my purse in a spot between where the fabric lining was coming apart, then stapled that fabric closed, since I had no intentions of using those keys for a while.

I still hadn’t decided what to do about the units, about what was inside of them. And despite my new library card and the internet searches I’d tried to do, I couldn’t figure out how the matters of Uncle Phil’s estate were handled if it was found they’d been maintained with drug money.

So I’d redoubled my efforts to clear out the house. The one unit that someone had already emptied out was now all but bursting with crap from the house.

The living room was a fully functioning space now. As were two of the bedrooms and a quarter of the basement.

And I’d even managed to sell a few items he’d had lying around, which had given me some extra money to buy plants to improve the curb appeal of the little ranch.

I was getting there.

The sooner I did, the sooner I could sell the place and pocket the money.ThenI could go to the cops. If the shop got wrapped up in the drug thing, at least I had the house money to live on.

It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was the best I could come up with. I’d lost everything in the move. I had to have a nest egg to fall back on when I did the right thing.

Sucking in a deep breath that no longer smelled like grease and oil and lube thanks to the essential oil diffuser I’d installed in my office—full of relaxing lavender because, well…—I reminded myself for the tenth time just that morning that everything was okay, I was safe, and this was all going to be over soon.

I could move back to Washington, reconnect with my friends, rebuild my life. And this whole Navesink Bank experiment would be nothing more than a fever dream.

Unbidden, Santo’s face popped into my head. Great bone structure, soft eyes, that silky hair…

“Stop,” I grumbled to myself when I felt desire sizzle through my needy system.

It had been nearly two weeks since he’d taken me to Famiglia. Then dropped me off at home in a rush. At first, I’d figured it was just a work thing that tore him away from me. But as more time went by, the more I had to conclude that he’d changed his mind about me. That maybe the teasing from his uncle had made him uncomfortable, so he decided to cut ties.

That was, you know—horrible, upsetting, borderline heartbreaking—not ideal, but it was what it was.

I would just have to get over it.

It was just that my body didn’t care what my mind thought when he traipsed across my memory.

Forcing thoughts of Santo away, I sat down at my desk. Wiggling the tension out of my shoulders, I opened my laptop to pay the bills for the shop, a knot coiled in my belly because I knew how tight things seemed.

In the end, though, everything got paid. And there was just enough leftover to pay the Grassi Family for their protection. Plus, like, fifty bucks.

Yay? I guess.

I closed my laptop lid and leaned back in my chair, closing my tired eyes, wondering how wrong it would be to let myself take a little desk nap. I mean… the blinds were drawn; no one could see.

In a sick way, work had suddenly started to feel a lot less scary than home. If for no other reason than there were alwaysother people milling around—picking up cars, dropping them off, waiting for their oil changes.

I’d just made my decision, folded my arms on my desk, and rested my heavy head on them when there was a sharp knock at my door.

“Ugh,” I grumbled, dreams of a nap slipping away.

I made my way to the door, expecting David—since he was pretty much known for his sharp raps at the door at this point. The other guys, well, they avoided the office like I was harboring a petri dish sporting a brand-spanking-new viral plague.

“Oh!” I said, shocking back to find Santo standing there.

He looked almost bashful with his hands tucked into his pockets, his posture curved forward.

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