Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 104127 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104127 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
I mourn it all. Every single shitty hand I’ve been dealt.
“Is there anyone you have to call?” the man asks in a voice that tells he’s feeling sorry for me.
He’s got to witness my break, and any other time I’d be embarrassed, but today, I’m too tired and sad to care.
I look over to see him reaching his phone out.
And one name rolls in my mind.
If I can get home and grab some stuff, I can get out of the city, but I’ll need someone to help me.
One person will be able to help me get away.
Matt.
I only hope this doesn’t get us both killed.
49
SASHA
When I see the familiar buildings of my block, my heart beats rapidly in my chest.
I don’t have much time before I meet Matt.
Just enough to grab a few essentials, and then I’ll haul ass out of there. Preferably before anyone finds me. This would be the first place they’d look.
The truth is, I should have had the truck driver drop me off where Matt told me—a few blocks from the precinct. But I needed to grab some cash that I have stored in a loose ceiling tile above my bed. It’s not much.
Maybe fifteen hundred dollars, give or take.
Lots of long hours on my feet, dealing with cheap patrons to even scratch together that much.
It’s been hiding in the spot since before Roman died. My fear of him finding it spurred me to stash it.
When the truck pulls to a stop, my hands are shaking. I know it’s a risk, but I have to take it.
“Thank you,” I say as I look back at the man who helped me for no reason other than the kindness of his heart.
“Be safe.”
“I will.” I fling the door open before I can second-guess myself and make my way out onto the street.
The moment I do, I realize how dumb I am. I don’t have my keys.
Luckily for me, security is shit in this building. So instead of going through the front door, I head toward the fire escape.
Gideon wasn’t wrong. This place is awful, but the good news is it shouldn’t be too hard to break into, and I have no intentions of ever coming back.
The walk around the building isn’t far, but as I dash toward the fire escape, I swear I feel eyes on me.
It’s my own paranoia. It has to be.
My heart pounds in my chest, and I tremble as I pull the stairs down.
The faster I get in, the faster I can get out.
I climb up the corroded stairs, gripping the railing with my hands. The cold bites into my skin. I can feel the rust and the grime on it, but I don’t care. I need to get inside. One step at a time until I reach the landing for the first floor, my floor.
The window is locked, but this isn’t my first time breaking inside my apartment, and I know the lock is broken.
It’s only one of the reasons I hate this place so much.
Normally, at night, I wedge a chair against the window. Without the chair there, the lock doesn’t stay in place.
With a deep inhale, I peek inside the window, and just as I suspected, the chair is clear across the room.
My hand reaches out and tries to push the window open, but I know it won’t open right away. You have to wiggle the flimsy glass. I shake it back and forth until the lock moves with the vibrations.
Just as I knew it would, the crappy lock that was merely resting in place and never doing its job unlatches.
I push the window open and slide my body through the crack.
A large audible sigh leaves my body once I’m inside, but it’s short-lived as I look around the place.
My apartment was never nice, but now it looks like a bomb exploded.
All of my things are thrown around. Cabinets are open. Someone was here, and that someone was searching.
It would be nice if I were able to pretend to be ignorant for a minute because what could anyone hope to find in my apartment? But I know the answer. Gideon’s words ricochet in my head.
The money Roman stole.
The only problem is I don’t have the money.
I never did.
There isn’t much to salvage. Grabbing a pair of pants, I quickly pull off my shorts and slide them on. Then I stand on the bed, pushing the popcorn-stained ceiling tile over.
Please let it be there.
My hand rummages around, and then I find it. The small bag filled with all the cash I have in the world.
When I go to count it, I hear a noise.
My front door kicks open, and three large men stride in through the opening as if they own the place.
“Isn’t this interesting.” It’s the man from the picture, and his eyes are locked on the bag in my hand. “Where is my money?”