Page 28 of Reasons We Break

But it’s not Jassa. It’s her dad, asking her to pick up groceries on her way home from her “meeting.” Simran sends an affirmatory text back, then glances at the time. She told her parents the imaginary meeting ended...now. Which means she should leave, if she’s committing to this lie.

It’s been an hour since she got here. Her mind runs through possibilities. Maybe Jassa showed up before her, got irritated she was late, and left. Maybe his phone’s dead. Or...maybe she read this all wrong. Maybe he left her hanging deliberately? But why would he do that?

She feels silly suddenly, sitting here all dolled up. This was a ridiculous idea. There are more useful things she could be doing, like getting those groceries. Numbly, she tosses her cup and heads back to the parking lot.

The sun is getting lower on the horizon by the time she approaches the abandoned lot. It’s Saturday night during summer, so there’s barely anyone around. Her pickup is in a far corner.

But—her steps slow—it isn’t alone.

There’s someone leaning against the pole two spaces away from it. She recognizes him: the guy from the lunch kitchen. The one Rajan swore at. He’s dressed in an unassuming green jacket, arms crossed, diamond studs sparkling in his ears. And he’s looking straight at her.

This can’t be a coincidence.

Keep calm, she tells herself, and runs through her options. Turning back seems too obvious. She could call security for an escort. But that’s quite a wait, and for what? It’s still light out; it would feel like overkill. She has to get going for those groceries.

While she’s waffling, another girl crosses her path right ahead of her, turning toward the parking lot, too. Simran relaxes slightly and resumes her regular pace.

The other girl glances behind her, clearly sensing Simran. Simran nods to her, and she slows a bit to let Simran catch up.

She’s South Asian, with blond-dyed hair; very skinny, in a crop top and joggers that hang off her bony hips. She clutches a law textbook to her chest and leans over to whisper. “Do you know that guy?”

“No. That’s my truck, though.”

“I’m getting real creep vibes.” The girl makes a face. “Want me to walk you to your truck?”

Simran smiles, relieved. “Sure. I can give you a ride to wherever you’re going, then?”

The girl sends her a similar surprised smile. “That’d be nice. I’m parked the next lot over.”

Feeling more confident, Simran approaches her vehicle.

The guy only watches them lazily; he doesn’t move or say a word as Simran unlocks her car. Simran slides into the driver’s seat and closes the door behind her.

Then the girl beside her sighs. “I’m sorry about this.”

Simran finally tears her eyes away from the boy, just in time to see the gun glinting in the dying sunlight.

RAJAN DOESN’T LIKEwho he becomes when he picks up his baseball bat.

His parents enrolled him in the sport in grade five. It was expensive, but they weren’t drowning in mortgage debt back then. Rajan’s dad even used to attend games. But baseball fell to the wayside when the money troubles started, and most of his equipment was sold. Rajan only kept the bat. Eventually, he found another use for that swing of his.

He absentmindedly rubs at a rust-coloured stain as he stares up at the house he’s been called to. Before he got arrested last fall, he wouldn’t have thought twice about what he’s about to do. It was a simple role. Nick played good cop; Rajan was indisputably bad cop. They were good collectors.

He can do that again.

A sedan pulls into the driveway. Rajan pushes off the tree he’s leaning against and crosses the street. It’s an unassuming house; you’d never suspect it’s occupied by a guy who supports his OxyContin habit by gambling in underground casinos. The dude works in aninsuranceoffice.

His target doesn’t even notice him, standing at his door, fumbling with his keys. Rajan waits until he finally turns the lock. “Took you enough tries, Oliver.”

The guy whips around and immediately flattens against the door. His eyes are huge. He’s middle-aged, balding, and looks ready to wet his pants. “I don’t have the money!”

He clearly already knows what this is. “Relax.” Rajan nods at the door. “Let’s talk inside.”

Oliver doesn’t move. Rajan lets his bat tap against the front walk once. Oliver’s eyes drop to it. “I’ll call the police.”

Rajan yawns pointedly. “Inside, I said.”

When Rajan doesn’t immediately attempt to hit a home run on his face, Oliver relaxes. Turns and opens the door.