Page 58 of Deceitful Vows

The remnants of the streetlight that usually keep incidents like this on the other side of Myasnikov dot her nonslip work shoes, and the camera dome is covered with more spray paint than the bench she should be seated on.

My heart squeezes when I notice her cheeks are ashen and wet. Nasty red welts circle her wrists and neckline, announcing that the perp stole more than her phone and purse. He took every possession she owned—including her sanity.

“It’s okay,” I assure her, bending down until we’re eye level.

She must have fought her attacker. Her eye is swelling with a fresh bruise, and numerous grazes scrape her legs and arms not covered by her maid’s outfit.

Her tremors shudder through me as well as I scan the area, seeking help. When my search comes up empty, I stray my eyes to the emergency assistance button at the end of the stop.

“I’ll be right back.”

The dark-haired woman shoots her eyes in the direction I’m peering for merely a second before she murmurs, “No. No police. Please.” She seems more scared now. “I-I?—”

“It’s okay,” I assure her again, understanding her apprehension. The people who are meant to be the safe option often do not prove they are. “Can you stand?”

“Yes. I th-think so,” she stammers out slowly before her work shoes crunch the shards of plastic scattered around her.

“Just take it slow,” I plead when she almost tumbles. She’s woozy, and I believe the blood seeping from the back of her head is responsible for that. “There’s a hospital?—”

“No hospital. I j-just need to get home.”

“Okay,” I repeat, even aware it isn’t the answer I should be giving. “Can I help you?” When apprehension is the first thing to cross her face, I say, “I’m here to take the bus home as well. We’re probably going in the same direction.” Her maid’s outfit announces she doesn’t belong in this area of Myasnikov any more than I do. “So it won’t be any bother.”

“Ok-okay,” she parrots, making me smile when I recall how often people do that around me. “I ca-can pay your fare. They didn’t take this.”

It isn’t the right time for either of us to laugh, but it can’t be helped when she wiggles her bus card.

Not even criminals unwilling to work for what they want are desperate enough to use public transport.

20

ZOYA

Mara and I live on the same block. She doesn’t normally catch the late bus home, but her boss, who owns an apartment in Nikita’s building, was hosting a late-evening event. Mara altered her roster, hopeful the two-hundred-dollar cash payment she’d receive would keep her fed for a month.

The perp stole it along with a necklace she’d inherited from her mother and a fake tennis bracelet her boss had gifted her last Christmas.

Helping Mara kept my veins flooded with adrenaline for the past forty minutes. Now that they’ve simmered, I realize there are a handful of calls I need to make on a phone I no longer have.

That’s what led to me standing outside my building supervisor’s apartment, praying he is an early riser.

I’m about to knock for the second time when Mr. Fakher’s door slowly inches open. Except it’s not Mr. Fakher answering. It is a man who has a far slimmer stomach and a headful of hair.

I inch back to check I’m at the fourth door from the stairwell. Mr. Fakher gave me directions plenty of times to make sure it stuck, but it’s early and I’m tired, so I could have miscounted.

Once I’m certain I have the right apartment, I turn my eyes back to the man who has to be in his early fifties. “I was seeking the building sup?”

He flashes his pearly white teeth before replying, “You’ve found him.” He fans his hand across his chest. “Luka Traite. What can I do for you, sweetheart?”

His sleezy rake of my body during what is meant to be a term of endearment assures me I have the right property. All building supervisors are the same—one immoral gesture from criminal charges.

Although I’d rather brush off his eagerness in the same manner I do Mr. Fakher, I can’t. He is my only lifeline to the world outside my apartment walls.

“Mr. Fakher was meant to fix my landline last month.”

Luka’s brow arches as high as his voice. “You still have a landline?”

“Yes.” I don’t mention it is because its previous tenant was on life support that required constant connectivity in the event of a cell service failure. The particulars don’t matter, and I’m too tired to pretend they do. “But it isn’t working, and I don’t have access to a phone, so I was wondering if I could use the landline in the security office.”

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