Page 16 of Fatal Bonds

I glance nervously around. “I think so. For now.”

“I’ll be here as soon as you arrive,” he assures me.

“Thank you,” I murmur, tears blurring my vision as my emotions overwhelm me.

I’m beyond grateful as I pass the woman’s phone back to her. Finally, I feel like I might be home free. That doesn’t stop me from anxiously watching the train doors every time the train stops. The sweet couple get off shortly after, wishing me luck, and by the time I finally reach the Sedgwick stop, I’m nearly jumping out of my skin over every person who steps onto the L.

Leaving the station, I follow the old man’s directions, going south on Sedgwick Street and turning right on Division, then following it until I reach Larrabee. By the time the police station comes into view, my nerves are on the brink of snapping and my feet are nearing frostbitten. I should have asked if an officer could pick me up at the train station, but it doesn’t matter now.

I step through the front doors into the building’s warm air, ready to collapse with relief. Then I stop dead in my tracks. The behemoth I’ve been running from all this time is standing at the reception desk, his massive arms crossed over his chest and a deep scowl creasing his face. A blond officer chats with him, his thumbs casually hooked inside the arm holes of his bullet-proof vest. Maks’s man spots me as soon as I stop, and the officer turns to follow his gaze.

“That’s her,” the Russian giant grunts.

The officer takes a step toward me, his nametag catching the overhead light, and I see it all clearly in one brilliant flash of understanding.

It’s Officer Petty—he must have called Maks’s man and told him where I was.

My feet are moving before I have time to fully process what I’m doing or where I’m going. All I know is that I need torun.

7

LINDSEY

Idon’t know how long I run or where I’m going. All I know is that I need to disappear. Every time I spot a police car rolling down the street, I dip into an alley or duck behind a parked vehicle. I keep moving, winding down the streets of Chicago until the sun has started to set. As the shadows creep in, the temperature plummets, reminding me that I can’t survive a night outside in the dead of winter. I wish I could go back to my apartment—I’ve considered taking the risk—but Maks told me he broke into my computer and emailed my work. That means he must know where I live, and I’m sure his men will be waiting for me there by now.

I have no money, no phone, nowhere to go, so I keep wandering, looking for anything that might provide shelter from the cold. That’s why I don’t hesitate when I stumble across the steepled Gothic-style church with Mother of Mercy emblazoned across the sign out front. “All are welcome” is printed in gold letters below it, and I take that at face value, hoping I’ve found a place to hide.

The door is heavy as I pull it open and slip inside. As soon as I cross the threshold, I feel as though I’ve stepped into a completely different world than the hell I’ve been running from. Silence echoes off the walls and empty pews that line the aisle. A massive organ sits high up on the second floor of the open chapel, filling the far wall of the magnificent building with shining silver pipes. Padding softly under the vaulted ceiling, I look up at the stained glass windows, mesmerized by the soft colors that I can barely make out in the fading light.

When I find a small, secluded corner, I tuck myself into it, pulling my black hoodie over my knees and under my toes as I try to thaw my frozen feet. Resting my chin on my knees, I keep an eye on the door and I wait, counting the minutes to see how long it takes someone to find me here. I need to come up with a plan, but I don’t honestly have one. Maybe I could go to one of my friends. I imagine one of the girls from work would be willing to take me in.But won’t that put them in danger?If Maks has the police in his pocket, I’m in much deeper trouble than I realized. I could try leaving Chicago completely—but I have no means of transportation, no money to make that happen unless I’m ready to stow away on another train. My feet throb, reminding me of the likelihood that I could even make it onto a second train without getting caught. Burying my forehead against my thighs, I fight the urge to cry.

Why did I run?Clearly, I didn’t think through all the potential repercussions, and a wave of soul-crushing exhaustion washes over me as I realize I have no clue where to go from here.

I am so fucked…

“I’m sorry, miss, but you can’t stay here.”

The stern voice cuts through the thick fog surrounding my thoughts, and my head snaps up as I realize that somewhere along the line, I must have fallen asleep. My nose aches from where my glasses have dug into the bridge of it for too long. Blinking rapidly, I look at the young priest standing over me, his fists planted on his hips as he scowls.

“Sorry,” I rasp, unfolding my stiff legs and pulling my hoodie down around my hips before I stand.

He eyes my wardrobe with a hint of confusion as he gestures me toward the front door. “If you’re looking for the homeless shelter, it’s just a couple of blocks south, on Wells Street. They might still have a few available beds.” His voice is softer now, a hint of compassion creeping into it.

Maybe that’s my best option—hiding in a shelter. It would be under the radar. “Thanks.” Pulling my hood up around my face, I stuff my hands into the pouch pocket of my hoodie as I step back out into the bitter cold. The sky is inky black above the city lights. It must be late. Every muscle in my body tenses, screaming for me to go back inside. I don’t belong out here. I don’t know the first thing about living on the streets, and I fight back tears as I make my way down the church steps and turn right.

I’m not familiar enough with Chicago to recognize the street names in this part of town or even where I am within the city, but I do know I was heading in a generally southerly direction when I left the police station, so I know which way to turn to keep heading south. Cars pass me at regular intervals, and no one slows or even gives me a second glance. The biting cold of the sidewalk seeps through the bottoms of my socks, turning my toes to ice within a matter of minutes, but I keep walking, reaching each street sign I pass in the hopes that one will say Wells.

The smell of cooked cheese and tomato sauce draws my attention to the neon sign of a pizza joint down the street to my left, and my stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten anything since that greasy breakfast sandwich this morning. Hopefully, it’s not too late for the shelter to be serving food. My stomach cramps with hunger, and compassion rips through me as I realize this must be what homeless people experience all the time.

“Lindsey? Lindsey Payne?”

I freeze, my muscles tensing as someone calls me by name. Turning, I look in their direction, and my heart breaks into a sprint when I don’t recognize the men. But they seem to recognize me—three dark-haired, clean shaven men who peer out the open windows of a black Lincoln.

“Do I know you?” I ask, icy adrenaline flooding my veins as they throw the car into park and start to get out.

“No. But we know you. Half of Chicago is out looking for you. Why don’t you come with us?” the man from the front passenger seat suggests, extending his hand toward me in an inviting gesture.

His accent triggers warning bells in my head, and I take a step back. He doesn’t sound Russian like Maks. He sounds Italian—like the man Maks was meeting with.Fuck.

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