Page 30 of Art of Sin

Stupid. So stupid. How the fuck did I not see the lock on the outside? After everything I’ve lived through the last two years on the street, I was duped by a nice smile and the promise of food.

“Dee?” comes Nate’s high whisper.

I don’t answer, instead racing to my bag and searching for my switchblade. It’s gone, the hidden compartment empty, and the last person to touch the bag was Marco when he removed my soiled clothes.

A scream building in my throat, I dive for the nearest window. We’re on the ground floor. We can get out of here. Steal back everything we lost. Laugh about how narrowly we avoided—

I yank back the curtains.

And scream.

And scream.

And slam my hands against the sheets of plywood bolted over the windows until my palms are bruised and bloody.

Nearby, Nate hugs his knees and rocks slowly in the chair.