Page 33

The address I gave the management office was a PO Box on the other side of town.

Pavel wouldn't be able to find me that way.

But his men following me would make it all too easy.

By the time I reached my neighborhood, the sun wasrising, and DC was waking up, ready for another day of greed, abuse, and power grabbing.

When I finally stepped off the platform and climbed the cracked concrete steps to my street, my nerves were frayed.

My hands were still shaking, and my legs were cramping from all the tension.

I had tucked the gun into the front of my waistband and pulled out my T-shirt to cover it. Which of course didn't really work to fully conceal it, but if I crossed my arms low over my stomach it wasn't as overt.

I wasn't about to attract police attention by being the crazy woman on the DC Metro with a gun.

That would make it far too easy for Pavel to find me.

For a moment in the middle of my travels, I had considered waving the gun around to attract attention and then allowing myself to be taken into police custody where I could explain to a detective or a police chief or whoever what had happened and turn over the weapon.

It was a nice little fantasy, pretending for a moment that I lived in a world where the good guys won.

Where someone would listen to me and take my story seriously.

Sadly, I lived in reality, where a woman was rarely believed over a man, and the Ivanovs probably had every single cop on their payroll.

No, making a scene, garnering attention, or telling my story was just going to make it that much easier for him to find me.

I didn't need to draw attention; I needed to fade into the background until he forgot about me.

I needed to stay alive.

I needed to stay on my feet, working to pay off my father's debts and my grandmother's bills.

Someone needed to take care of her.

My father had disappeared, so I was the only option.

She never let me down, and I wasn't about to do that to her.

The moment I stepped inside my tiny apartment, I shoved the door shut behind me and bolted every single lock.

When I moved into the apartment, it already had three deadbolts.

I had added two more and a chain for good measure.

Now, that didn't seem like enough.

After locking up, I dragged my tiny second-hand Ikea dresser against the door and looked around for anything else I could use.

On a whim, I stacked the pots and pans I found at Goodwill on top, as well as anything else that would make some noise if it fell.

It was a tower of sad, pathetic junk.

Almost everything I owned.

I looked at it, hollow desolation welling inside of me, and just sank to the floor.

The dresser wouldn't stop Pavel, but maybe it would slow him down?