Page 45 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

Of course, he doesn’t get it, keeps on pulling, his spine standing out from his back.

I never noticed before since he is so shaggy, but Chowder is awfully thin …

I scoop him up in my arms and press him close. “I’m sorry,” I murmur into his ears.

This is shitty. It’s one thing to subject myself to hunger and bullshit for my pride, but an innocent dog …

My gaze slinks back to the stupid card, now wedged in between two stones.

Even if this Gavril man and his offer are sketchy as hell, Chowder and I would probably get a hot meal and bath out of it at least. After that, we can get the hell out of there and figure something better out. Right now, I’m too tired and hungry to think straight about our options.

I crouch down, pick up the card, feeling the heft between my fingers. I want to tell myself that it’ll be that simple. That being in Gavril Vaknin’s house, in his presence, won’t be as irresistible as I fear.

For a little while, I actually believe myself.

11

Joy

It takes a while to get there.

I pull out a battered, ripped-up scrap of map from my backpack pocket and trace out the route with my pointer finger. Straight down Lees, all the way to the waterfront, then to the Forest Hills neighborhood, where the pretty, important people live in their pretty, important mansions. It’s located near neither forests nor hills, but the estates still fetch millions on the open market.

We stop on the way for bathroom breaks at libraries, malls, and to let Chowder snuffle whatever non-lethal-looking fallen things he can scavenge on the ground. Walking and walking and more walking, until my legs are ready to fall off, to fuck off and leave me, to die and go to hell. Until they ache so much I have to stop. Until, finally, I see the wrought-iron Forest Hills sign and practically gasp with relief.

I’m here.

Every house is the kind of jaw-dropper that I can’t stop and stare at, on the likelihood that the owner might think I’m some deranged nut trying to work out how to rob it. The owners themselves, the few I do see out and about, are what you’d expect. Kind of.

They’ve got the nice cars, nice clothes, nice hairdos. But what’s weird is that they evenlooknice, most of them. Sure, I get a sullen stare from a fat guy who looks like the “Before” photo for a liposuction ad, an eyebrow lift from a blonde lady who can barely manage it with her face so Botox-frozen. But mostly, the rich Forest Hillians look sad, startled. As though they’re duking it out with their inner Mother Teresas whether to give me money on the spot or call the cops to come haul me out of here.

I make it easy for them—I keep on walking. Counting down the numbers under my breath as I go: “89 … 87 … 85 … 83 … 81 … 79 … 77 …”

Bingo. 77.

I expected Gavril Vaknin’s place to give the Taj Mahal a run for its money. In reality, it makes the Taj Mahal look like a crack den.

Mansion number seventy-seven is four stories of towering grandeur: creamy cobblestone walls, enough windows for every grown-up Brady Bunch character and their spouse to get their own. The front garden is immaculate, all the corners of the hedges so perfect that I have to look close to make sure it’s not CGI. Even the bugs on the plants look rich.

The shine-burnished, double-height front doors are closed, of course, explicitly designed to keep out riffraff like me.

A silly image flashes in my mind: the double-height doors flying open to reveal a giant, double-height butler who would look down at little old me and this little old dog before scoffing, then stomping back inside and slamming the doors in my face.

For a silly, childish hallucination, it’s honestly a little terrifying. Am I losing my shit already?

As I approach the door, I realize, in a panic, that there’s no doorbell. Or not any that I can see, at least.

I resist the urge to pound my frustrations into the mahogany doors in front of me—nothing screams desperate, do-not-let-in-under-any-circumstances hobo like pounding on a locked door while bemoaning her shitty fate for all to see.

But then I see it: an aesthetically pleasing flower bell.

Do it, Joy.

But it’s not that simple. It’s one thing to slink down the streets, as most people are careful to pretend not to see you. It’s another thing entirely to be a few feet from them and endure their scorn. It’s why I avoid stores whenever possible. Most public areas, too.

I don’t want to be made to feel worse than I look.

But then Chowder tugs at his twine leash and I remember that beggars can’t be choosers. In this case, that’s literal.

---