Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
I squint at the TV and frown. My picture should be all over the news with a wanted caption on top. How come they didn’t even mention my name? Did the police not give concrete statements to the media yet?
But that doesn’t make any sense. My handprints are everywhere in Richard’s office, and I’m, without a doubt, their prime suspect. So how come I’m just a homeless person in his shelter? Even my gender isn’t mentioned.
“The Russians are scary, dude,” Cigarette Man says.
“Worse than the Italians?”
“Right now? Way fucking worse. Their power and influence run deeper than any other criminal ring.” He throws his cigarette on the concrete without extinguishing it as he and his friend rush to catch a train.
I walk to where they stood and kill the cigarette with the sole of my shoe. The topic on the TV has changed to some other world news and I keep staring at the burnt butt. How the fire left a black line on the white exterior. So even after it’s gone, the evidence remains.
Just like my life.
I touch the bottom of my abdomen where my scar is tucked neatly under the countless layers of clothes. It still burns as if my fingertips are on fire, bursting through the clothes and flaming my skin.
Another protest of hunger comes from my stomach and I sigh, leaving the station. I need to go to a quieter place because, even though they didn’t reveal my identity, they will eventually.
The Giants fans’ conversation keeps playing in the back of my head as I sneak from one alley to another, my footsteps light and fast.
When Cigarette Man mentioned the Russians, the only thought that came to mind was the stranger from earlier today. His accent was very Russian, but not really rough like I’ve heard before. It was smooth, effortless, almost how I’d imagine Russian royalty to speak if they ever learned English.
Could he be a part of the mafia Cigarette Man mentioned?
I internally shake my head. Why would I place him with the mafia just because he has a Russian accent? He could be a Russian businessman, like the thousands who swarm New York all the time.
Or a spy.
A shiver shakes my insides at the thought. I really need to rein in my wild imagination. Besides, in what world is a spy that attractive? Except James Bond, but he’s fiction. The Russian stranger drew so much attention, and the weirdest part is that he seemed kind of oblivious to it. Or maybe he was bothered by it, like he didn’t want to be the center of attention, but he was forced into that position anyway.
I reach into my pocket and retrieve the handkerchief he gave me. Okay, so I did throw it in the trash, but then I took it out. No idea why. It felt like a waste, I guess.
Running my gloved fingers over the initials, I wonder if his wife made him this and if she’ll question him about its whereabouts. Though he seemed to be the type who does the questioning, not the other way around.
Shoving the handkerchief back in my pocket, I push the weird stranger out of my head and take a few turns until I arrive at an underground parking garage Larry and I frequent.
The guard is snoring at the entrance, mumbling about some baseball player being an idiot. It doesn’t take much effort to slip past him. Now, all I have to do is leave early in the morning before he wakes up.
The parking garage isn’t big or fancy, only fit for around a hundred cars and half the slots aren’t occupied. Just one-third of the neon lights work, but even if they all blinded me, it wouldn’t make a difference. I’ve slept in worse places with stronger lighting and louder noises.
The key to staying safe is sleeping with one eye open. Not literally. But basically being a light sleeper so that the slightest movement springs me awake.
When I sit down on the concrete floor between two cars and close my eyes, I’m well aware of the buzzing from the half-broken lights and the swishing of the cars passing by on the streets upstairs. I can even hear the guard’s mumbling, though I can’t make out his words.
If he stops, I’ll know he’s awake and I need to be alert. He could call the cops on me, and that’s the last thing I want in my current situation—or any situation, actually.
I try to get as comfortable as possible in my position, although the cold is seeping through my bones from the wall behind me and the floor underneath me.
I try not to pay attention to my growling stomach or the pulsing need to get drunk.
I try to think about where to go from here when I officially become a wanted person.