I stop before rounding the corner toward the shelter.
Saying I’ll face the devil and actually doing so are two different things. After all, I clawed at his face, kicked him in the balls, then shoved him against his desk the last time I saw him.
He might really catch me and force me to spend a day in the police station.
A low growl escapes my stomach and I wince as it contracts against itself. I can almost feel it opening its mouth and when it finds nothing, makes this god-awful sound.
I wrap an arm around my middle as if that will magically appease the ache.
Okay, I’ll just try to sneak in some soup and leave. Many homeless people who don’t spend the night here come only for meals, so my plan shouldn’t be weird.
I pull my hood over my head and rub my hands together in a half-assed attempt to warm them as I round the corner.
Two police cars are parked in front of the shelter with their blue and red lights on. A few news vans are scattered around the shabby building. Reporters and cameramen are everywhere, like bugs searching for a juicy piece of trash to bite down on.
Don’t tell me that slimy asshole called the police and the media because of me? I only kicked him. Okay, maybe I clawed at his face and punched him, too, but that was in self-defense. He’s the one who called me into his office and was feeling me up where he wasn’t supposed to be touching.
I might have little—okay, nothing—but I can protect myself against bastards like him.
But if I tell that to the police or the media, they won’t believe me. Why would the respectable director of a homeless shelter, who’s also running for mayor, touch an insignificant, dirty person like me?
I really should search for another shelter. But will they let me in if Richard has already blacklisted me?
Was it the clawing, the punching, or the kicking that sealed the deal for him? If it was the latter, so be it. Because kicking him in the balls isn’t something I regret in the least.
A pebble hits me upside the head and I wince, turning around. A smile lifts my mouth when I make eye contact with the only person I’d call my friend in this shithole.
“Larry!” I whisper-yell.
“Come here.” He motions at me to join him in a small alleyway that’s used for tossing trash.
I briskly move to his side and wince at the smell of garbage. Not that Larry and I are the best smelling people around, considering the limited amount of time we get to shower.
Larry’s tan skin appears even darker in the shadows. He’s a middle-aged man—around mid-fifties, as he told me—and he has the wrinkles around his eyes as proof of the time he’s spent on this earth. His features are harsh, angular, and the bone in his nose protrudes due to being broken before.
He’s wearing a second-hand hot orange cashmere coat that he got from some charity. His boots and gloves are navy blue. Obviously, his sense of fashion is definitely better than mine.
We met a few weeks ago at one of the subway stations and he shared his dinner with me. I gave him half of my precious beer and we somehow became best friends. The one thing I love most about Larry’s company is that he’s not the talkative type. We both daydream in each other’s presence, not bothering to ask too many questions. We’ve found camaraderie in silence. In shutting the door on the world. He knows about my alcohol problem, though, and he told me that he’s a veteran.
Larry is the one who brought me to this shithole, saying we’d get free meals and a warm bed. We’ve stuck around for each other, so when one is sleeping, the other takes guard so no one touches us. When there are no beds available, we sit beside each other, I lay my head on his shoulder, and we sleep like that.
“I’ve been searching all over for you.” He pants. “Where have you been?”
“Around.”
“Did you steal some beer again?”
“No!”
“Winter…” he pinches the bridge of his nose as if I’m an insolent child.
“Okay. Only one. I didn’t have any change.”
“We agreed to never steal.”
“Desperate times, Larry. Besides, you know I don’t like the sober me. She has issues.” Maybe that’s why I’ve been feeling off-balance all afternoon. I have a low alcohol tolerance, but even I need more than a single beer to get drunk.
“Winter…”
“Forget about me.” I throw a dismissive hand in the shelter’s general direction. “What happened here?”
He thins his lips before releasing them. “I ought to ask you that.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Why do you think the police and the media are here?”
“Because Richard called them over to demonize me?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
“Richard was found dead in his office this morning.”
I pause, a strange sensation gripping me by the throat and confiscating my air supply. When I speak, it’s in a strained whisper. “What?”
“The cleaning staff found him in a pool of his own blood and the police are suspecting you did it.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. I don’t know if Richard called them before he died or if the staff and the others witnessed that you were the last person who saw him alive.”
My fists clench on either side of me. “I didn’t kill him, Larry. I didn’t do it.”
His brows draw over his wrinkled eyes as he sighs. He has thick skin with some blotches, probably due to staying out in the sun for so many years. “I know.”
“Really?”
“Really, Winter. You’re a crazy little thing, but you’re no murderer.”
I smile a little at that. “Who are you calling crazy, old man?”
“I’m no old man, you little shit.”
“You act like one, Larry.”
He headlocks me, then swiftly pushes me away. Larry has always kept distance between us, as if he’s afraid to touch me, and I’m thankful for that. Not because his touch is bad, but because I dislike being touched. That’s why I prefer invisibility.
“Anyway, you need to leave before they find you.”
“No. I did nothing wrong, and if I hide, that means I’m admitting to a crime I didn’t commit.”
“So what do you plan, woman? Are you thinking of barging into the midst of those policemen? What are you going to say? Like, ‘umm, hey there, officers, I’m the one you think killed Richard, but I actually didn’t, so let’s just shake hands’?”
“I’ll simply tell them what happened.”
“No one will believe you, Winter. Your fingerprints are all over his office and you were the last one who saw him alive before you disappeared. You’re guilty in their eyes. And if you go in there, they’ll lock you up for twenty years. You won’t get a good lawyer either, because state-appointed ones are shit.”
His words penetrate my brain, slowly making sense, but I want to dismiss them as fast as possible. I want them to be untrue. Because I can’t accept that option.
“So what do you suggest I do, Larry? Run away?”
The older man snaps his fingers. “Exactly. Lie low for a while and then we’ll figure some way to get you out of this city.”
It’s the most logical thing to do under the circumstances. It is. But I’ve always been attached to this merciless city with super glue. Besides, it’s where I have memories with my baby girl, and if I leave, it’ll be like I’m abandoning a piece of me.
“But…Larry…”
He sighs, jamming both of his hands in his orange coat. “You don’t want to leave?”
I shake my head.
“But you might get locked up. You have to.”
“I know. Are you…coming with me?”
“Absolutely, woman. We ride together and die together.”
“That sounds like some motorcycle club’s slogan.”
“I stole it. Roll with it.” He peeks his head around the corner, his hazel eyes shining with concentration before he focuses on me. “Now, go. Don’t stay in open places and avoid cameras. I’ve got your back.”
I wrap my arms around him in a brief hug. “How will we meet again?”
“I have my homeless intel. I’ll find you. Just lay low.”
After I reluctantly release him, I carefully make my way through the back of the alley.
I glance behind me to cast one last glimpse at Larry, but he’s already gone.
Usually, when we’re not at a shelter, Larry and I spend the night in the subway station. The benches are our friends and the marginal silence is better than the loud city outside.
So that’s where I go first, but soon realize my mistake when I see the news about Richard’s death on the station’s TV.
Two middle-aged men, who appear to be football fans judging from their blue Giants hats, stop in front of me to watch the news. I shrink backward and blend in with a wall in case anyone here recognizes me.
“What a mess,” one of them says, lighting a cigarette, despite the no smoking signs.
“Maybe it’s a sign that he wasn’t meant to run for mayor,” the other replies, shrugging a shoulder.
“Wasn’t meant to? Man, have you even been living in this city?”
“Why? What?”
“Richard Green was the prime candidate for mayor.” Cigarette Man leans toward his friend and lowers his voice as if he’s sharing Central Intelligence Agency secrets. “There are rumors that he was backed by the mafia.”
“The mafia?” the other man whisper-yells.
“Keep your voice down, you idiot. You want to get us whacked?”
I scoff at the way he mimics the famous mobster movies, but I find myself moving closer, while still keeping a distance, to get a whiff of their conversation. If Richard was backed by the mafia, then the scary men dressed in dark suits make more sense since they dropped by occasionally and went straight to his office.
“Is it the Italians?” the non-smoker asks.
Cigarette Man blows out a cloud of smoke and I block my nose and mouth with the back of my hand to keep from coughing. “No. The Bratva.”
“Russians?”
“That’s what the rumors say.”
“Are the filthy Russians getting involved in our politics again?”
“Yeah, man. And their mafia is no joke. Heard they kill people like they’re flies.”
“This is a country of law.”
Cigarette Man bursts out laughing, waving his hand to catch his breath from the force of it. “What law, man? Those monsters make the law wherever they go.”
“Are you saying Richard’s death isn’t as simple as the media’s painting it out to be?”
“Yes, I am. All that is a diversion.” Cigarette Man motions at the line that reads “Richard Green, New York City mayoral candidate, was killed by one of the homeless people in the shelter he directed.”
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.
Soon enough, exhaustion takes its toll on me and I fall into a dreamless sleep.
I don’t dream. Ever. It’s like my mind has become a blank canvas since the accident.
The mumbling stops and the guard starts talking. My eyes pop open and I stare at the small opening across from me that serves as a window. It’s still night, and judging by the lack of cars buzzing about, it’s late enough that no other vehicles should come here.
And yet, a black car slowly slides into the parking garage. It’s so silent, I wouldn’t have heard it if I weren’t so attuned to the outside world’s noises.
I drag my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them, then pull the hood of my coat over my head to cover it completely. Only one of my eyes peeks through a narrow gap.
As long as it doesn’t park in the spot opposite me, I should be fine. It’s more logical to pick one of the countless spots near the entrance.
The sound gets closer and I catch sight of the black car. I shrink in the tight space between a Hyundai and the wall, thanking everything that’s holy for my small frame. It helps in my invisibility scheme.
But in doing this, I’ve blocked my vision of what the car is doing. For long seconds, there’s no sound. Not the opening of doors or the beeping of a lock.
Crouching down, I peek under the car and see one pair of men’s feet standing right in front of the Hyundai. I place a gloved hand to my mouth to smother any sound I might make.
The rotten smell from whatever shit I’ve been touching triggers a sense of nausea and makes me want to retch.
I breathe through my mouth while I keep watching his feet. He’s wearing brown shoes and he’s not moving, like he’s waiting for something.
Go away. Go!
I repeat the mantra in my head over and over again as if that will make it happen.
Mom used to tell me that if you believe in something strongly enough, it’ll come true.
And just like magic, the brown shoes walk away. I release a breath of relief, but it’s cut off when a strong hand yanks me up from behind the car by my hood.
The force is so strong that I’m momentarily suspended mid-air, before a bulky man with scary features says with a Russian accent, “Got her, Boss.”
