Page 44 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

But I don’t slow down or let up in the slightest. I pound my legs into the dirt as hard and fast as I can, as everything on my back and Chowder in my arms all jingles along.

Keep going—don’t stop, don’t ever stop. Go—go—go.

Until my sneaker slams on the sidewalk and it hits me: I’m out of Tent City and … I stop, look around. They’re gone.

I probably lost them minutes ago, but I did it. I really did it. I made it out.

I saunter on down whatever street this is—Yonge, I’m pretty sure—with a nice old victory high running through my veins. It lasts a few minutes, until I spot a somewhat familiar-looking bum in a corner, looking like the last time he ate was 2012.

Shit.

I sit down on the stairs of a boarded-up shop, swallow.

Where the hell do I go now?

My hands are together, in one death-grip clasp.

Why didn’t I think this far ahead?

So what if I escaped, if I just end up getting murdered or assaulted on the streets tonight instead? Accidentally camping out at someone’s spot can have you waking up with a knife to the neck. Or you’ll just get booted or arrested by some grumpy cop. If there’s anything I learned from Teddy or the other hobos who stopped by to chat, it’s to stay in Tent City. The world outside, on the streets, has its own brand of cutthroat politics you don’t want to get on the bad side of.

Isodid not think this through.

I sag to the sidewalk wearily. Chowder licks at my cheek with what I imagine to be consolation, but is probably just him telling me he’s hungry.

My belly twists.

That’s another thing: food. I’m starving, and the soup kitchen isn’t close. Worse, the area around it is slums. No way can I camp out there.

Chowder paws me and something from my pocket flutters to the ground. “Thanks for that,” I mutter, bending to pick it up.

As soon as I see what it is, I let it drop back onto the cobblestones.

Gavril Vaknin.

77 Clair Creek Blvd

819-237-7715

Silver chrome, black easy-to-read letters. Restrained. Elegant. Like him.

I’m not going to touch the card. Not it, and not his offer.

“Even if you show up to my penthouse, they’ll know to let you in.”

Nothing is free, I remind myself.Nothing.

Slowly but surely, Chowder is slinking away, to inspect a fallen Oreo cookie on the ground. No joke, it does look a bit yummy.

I scowl at myself.

Have I really sunk to this? Hankering after some half-eaten garbage on the ground?

At the last second, I tug Chowder back from his meal. “Don’t.”

Still, he persists.

“I mean it, Chow. Dogs can’t eat chocolate. You’ll die.”

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