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  Copyright

  Caught in the Devil’s Snare

  Copyright© 2018 by Dani Matthews

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not meant to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any format without the permission of the author. The author acknowledges the trademarked status of products referred to in this book. Trademarks have been used without permission.

  The author has asserted his/her rights under the Copyright Act of 1976 to be identified as the author of this book.

  Photo credit: Shutterstock.com

  A note from the author

  Dear reader,

  American sign language is a unique and amazing language. While writing, I found that describing this incredible language is complicated since a person uses various hand gestures, facial expressions, etc. I felt as though it may begin to read like an ASL manual, and my hope is that you, the reader, can enjoy the fluidity of the book without the dialogue being overloaded with descriptions. That said, I thought it best to concentrate on what the characters were saying and not overly focus on which language the dialogue was being said. Any mistakes are my own, but I do hope you enjoy the book!

  Sincerely,

  Dani Matthews

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Epilogue

  One

  Charli

  I live in a world of silence.

  I’m okay with being deaf, I’ve never known anything else. I also learned early on that the world doesn’t owe you a damned thing. Nothing is freely given, and it’s your own responsibility to make something out of yourself. Everyone has their own lives to live, and when it comes right down to it, they’ll always choose themselves over you. Does that make me bitter and jaded? Jaded maybe, but no, not bitter. I’m where I am today because of my own choices. The world, as I said, owes me not a damned thing.

  My reality is harsh, but that’s okay. I still manage to find beauty in an unforgiving world, and when I find something that makes me smile, I file it away in my mind to think back upon when I need those reminders.

  Like today.

  They’re looking for me.

  To anyone else watching, they’re just two gang members skulking around an abandoned building looking to do business. I know better. I rely on sight and gut instinct to warn me of the dangers that exist all around me.

  Those two young men, wearing saggy jeans and baggy shirts that likely hide guns or knives, look familiar. It’s not their clothing, it’s their faces. I have a sharp memory, and I recognize the one with the dark goatee. One passing glance is all it takes for me to memorize a face, and I recall how odd I thought his chin looked. The goatee made it look so much bigger, causing the upper half of his head to look far too narrow compared to the lower. The black skull cap he’d been wearing had done nothing to enhance his facial structure. He’s still wearing it, so evidently, nobody’s bothered to clue him in yet.

  The other guy is taller with a narrower build, and I can see the tattoo on the side of his face from where I’m safely hidden behind the corner of the opposite building. That tattoo triggers an image of his features to spring to mind, and if I were closer, I’d be able to see the pockmarked skin along his sunken cheekbones, and I’d see the lip ring that causes his bottom lip to look even thinner than his upper.

  I’ve seen these men twice now. The first time I’d passed them on the street, I hadn’t thought anything of it. In New York, you can pass by hundreds in a single day. But yesterday, I’d noted them once more with a streetwalker, and when I’d tried to go unnoticed, I’d felt their eyes on me. I’ve been living off the streets for two months now, and I recognize a pimp and his henchman when I see them.

  I watch as they motion with their hands to one another, trying to be silent so as not to give away their presence as they carefully climb into the window and disappear. My lip quirks with amusement. If they knew I was deaf, they wouldn’t be so concerned with trying to sneak up on me.

  Slowly, my smile fades as I gaze at the brick building with a hint of longing. It’d been my home for the last week, and I hate to lose it. There were several other homeless taking nightly shelter inside it, and they’d been harmless. Most of them were elderly, and they’d kept to themselves. I’d felt somewhat safe, so I’d continued to sleep there.

  I sigh inwardly and scan the empty lot surrounding the building. The pavement is cracked with hints of weeds and wilting grass growing in little tufts here and there. Trash litters the abandoned area, and the smell that lingers is a mixture of rotting garbage, urine, and feces. Even with the ugly exterior, I’d still managed to find beauty in it. My eyes search out the single dandelion that I’d noted this morning. It was surrounded by cigarette butts and broken glass, but it stood proud, showing no signs of wilting. Tomorrow, I’m certain it’ll be drooping, as all dandelions do when their lifecycle is ending. But today, it’d brought a smile to my face.

  I blink and pull myself out of my thoughts and look around, taking in the lengthening shadows creeping across the pavement. The sun will be setting soon, and I need to put distance between myself and the two thugs that have me on their radar. As carefully as I can, and with light footsteps, I turn and begin walking away from what I’d thought was a haven.

  It’s time to move on, and I know it would be wise to spend the night in one of the shelters. I adjust my backpack and wrap the long-sleeved shirt I’m wearing closer to my body. Even as the sun sinks somewhere in the sky—hidden by the many buildings that rise into New York’s skyline—the humidity remains high, and I can feel beads of sweat on the back of my neck. Summer is ending, but the heat is still going strong. I’d give anything to be wearing shorts instead of skinny jeans, a dark blue tank, and the long-sleeved, gray shirt I wear like a shield to hide my figure from the prying eyes of predators on the streets. I should probably find a way to cut my long, blonde hair since it’s a dead giveaway, but I haven’t become that desperate. I’m still hoping that I can somehow find a job.

  My lips remain set as I walk down the sidewalk, keeping my head down, shoulders hunched, my eyes alert beneath my lowered lashes. Finding a job is going to be difficult. Hell, that’s quite an understatement, but I refuse to give up. If I could just find a job, I could maybe afford a cheap apartment—anything with a roof—to get me off the streets.

  As I walk, passing by old street fronts, I avoid brushing shoulders with the other pedestrians. I pass by a panhandler, and I ignore him as I avoid the garbage can that had tipped over and strewn its contents onto the cracked sidewalk. My nose wrinkles when I spy the used condom and old needles mixed with the rubbish, and I give the trash a wide berth.

  I look around, scanning the streets and
buildings, wishing that I’d noted the pimp earlier in the day. It’s getting too late to be trying to get out of this area, and the nearest homeless shelter is still blocks away.

  Get moving, I warn myself, my hands fluttering in my mind as I talk to myself in my native language, ASL. I was born deaf, not mute, but I prefer not to talk if I don’t have to. ASL is the way to go, and I try not to deviate from it if I don’t have to.

  Flashing blue and red lights catch my attention, and I look up and watch as a police car weaves around traffic before disappearing around a corner. Sometimes, I wonder what it sounds like to hear. Was the siren loud? Are the cars on the congested street honking their horns with impatience? Do the drivers listen to music? What does music even sound like? I can’t imagine these sounds, and I tell myself that sounds can be just as much a distraction as a warning.

  I shake myself out of my thoughts and concentrate on walking in a fast, unassuming pace—like typical New Yorkers do. Everyone has a place to be, and most act like they don’t have enough time to get from point A to point B.

  Tonight, I need to get to point B as fast as I can before the shelter is too crowded. I have a niggling feeling that if I spend the night on the street, that pimp will find me. I may be living off the streets, but I’m not going to succumb to its darkness. I’m going to claw my way up and out of this mess or die trying.

  A large, city bus drives past, and its warm exhaust sweeps over me as my hair stirs. I could really use a shower, but personal hygiene isn’t currently high on my list of concerns. As I briskly make my way down the sidewalk, I can feel my stomach rumbling. I hadn’t found anything today that was safe to eat, and I’m hoping tomorrow will be a better day.

  Tonight, my focus is shelter. Tomorrow, I’ll search for something that will ease my hunger pains. And water. I need to find a place that has a drinking fountain. I’m so thirsty, but I try not to think upon it. To dwell on what I want but can’t have is pointless.

  By the time I reach the shelter, they still have a few cots available. I quickly snag one and sit down, letting my eyes roam around the large, open room. It’s filled with cots lined in rows, and most have been claimed. The smells wafting towards me are a mixture of body odor and musty fabric. It’s still better than sleeping on the street—tonight especially—so I tell myself to make the best of it.

  I slip my backpack straps over my shoulders so that the pack is secured to my chest. Almost everything I’d owned upon leaving Philly had been stolen at some point or another, including during a night’s stay at a shelter. Now, all I have left are a few extra clothes, a hairbrush, deodorant, and an empty water bottle I usually fill to the top when I come across a drinking fountain.

  Before I lie down, I quickly assess the occupants in the cots on either side of mine. On the left is an elderly woman with sagging skin and cracked glasses, she already looks to be sleeping. The occupant on the right is a frail looking woman who can’t be older than forty, but the many wrinkles on her face betray a hard life. The scent of stale cigarette smoke emanates from her as she sits up and coughs, her thin shoulders shuddering. Everyone has their own story, some worse than my own.

  I turn and lie on my side, hugging the backpack to my chest as I pull the ratty blanket over myself. I’d chosen to face the sleeping elderly lady, and I gaze at her without really seeing her.

  In cramped spaces like this, and with so many others nearby, it’ll be difficult to fall asleep. When I slumber, I’m vulnerable. I pull the blanket closer to the backpack, covering all the pockets to deter thieves during the night.

  My life didn’t used to be this way. Not that it was any better, but at least I’d been a ward of the state and had a roof over my head. Then, I’d turned eighteen and found myself on my own for the first time. The system doesn’t care once you become a legal adult, it spits you out and forgets about you.

  You see, I don’t have a family. No mother, no father. The woman that gave birth to me was a streetwalker and drug addict. The only good thing she ever did for me was leave me behind a police station when she decided she didn’t want me anymore—which was only a week after birthing me. Her drug of choice is likely why I’m deaf, but that’s something I try not to dwell upon. I want to keep moving forward instead of thinking upon the past. Which is why I shouldn’t be thinking of the many foster homes I’d been in and out of throughout my youth. Nobody wanted to deal with a deaf child, and as I grew older and became more self-reliant and aware of those around me, I learned just how cruel others could be.

  Nobody was going to swoop in and save me from the life I’d been born into, so I’d saved every cent that was ever given to me for food or necessities when I’d been staying with temporary families. I skipped meals, stuffed toilet paper down my panties when I had my period, suffered the wrath of spoiled kids laughing at my old clothes—all so that I could buy a car when I turned eighteen. It was a rust bucket, but I could drive it, and I could sleep in it. Philly had nothing for me, so I’d decided to head for New York City. I’d been hoping that in a city so large, I might find someone willing to hire me. But then my car was stolen, and two months later, here I am, still on the streets and homeless.

  I clench my jaw, determination sweeping through me. It’s all in the past. I need to move forward and stay positive. The past can’t be changed, but the future is still unwritten.

  * * *

  I wake abruptly.

  When I first awaken from sleep, I’ve learned to quickly assess my surroundings, and my eyelashes fly open. I’m confused for a moment until I recall that I’d stayed in a homeless shelter. The cot where the old woman had slept is empty, and I quickly sit up and check my backpack. The thin blanket is still covering it, and I shove it aside and unzip the olive-colored bag to verify my meager belongings are still there.

  They are.

  When the momentary relief passes, I look around the shelter. Most of the cots are empty, and a few stragglers are taking their time gathering their belongings. They’re probably dreading another day out in the city, trying to survive while being treated as if they don’t exist by the general public.

  I, on the other hand, am irritated that I hadn’t woken earlier. I need to put as much distance as possible between myself and the pimp from yesterday. He’s probably looking for me, and I know exactly what his plans will be if he finds me. He’ll snatch me knowing that no one will notice that I’m missing, and then he’ll drug me up until I’m dependent on whatever drugs he’s pushing. Next thing you know, I would do anything for my next fix. Next thing you know—including selling my body. I would be completely reliant on him.

  Hell will freeze over first before I allow that to happen.

  So I gather my resolve and stand, letting my body stretch for a moment before I leave the room and step out into the busy world once more. My stomach is begging for food, and that’s my first priority. While I make my way through the Bronx towards Manhattan, I’ll be on the lookout for the possibility of a meal. As disturbing as it had once sounded, dumpster diving isn’t all that bad. Obviously, I don’t touch the crap that has been somewhat eaten by an unknown—possibly disease carrying—person. But the items that have been untouched, especially those that are still in wrappers, that’s the good stuff. That is edible.

  As I pass by fast food diners, my stomach gurgles, refusing to let me forget that I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours. A few places look promising, but when I glance in the alleyways behind the eateries, I find other homeless have beaten me to the goods. Damn it. I hadn’t been able to sleep last night, so when I’d finally nodded off, it had probably been early this morning. Otherwise, I’m sure I wouldn’t have overslept.

  Eventually, I pass by a small bakery, and when I spy the empty alley, I hesitate. Either it’s been picked over, or no one’s been this way yet. It’s worth a try.

  There’s a large dumpster situated by the bakery’s back door, and I spy a stack of water-stained crates that might be useful. I walk over, avoiding crushed takeout cups and
crumpled wrappers strewn across the ground. Using the toe of my scuffed canvas sneakers, I scoot the crates closer to the dumpster and then adjust the backpack on my back. I grab the second crate and set it on the first.

  Well, here goes nothing.

  I grab the ledge of the dumpster and climb up onto the crates. The crates feel stable beneath my weight, so I release the ledge of the dumpster and carefully lift the lid.

  The scent nearly knocks me off my feet, and I quickly begin breathing through my mouth. The dumpster is filled with rotting food, bags smeared with grease and different fluids, and plenty of things that I don’t even want to try identifying. A plastic bag lies on top, and it looks like it’d been recently tossed in. Not wanting to linger, I grab the bag and hurriedly climb down.

  I lift my head and look towards the alley opening. A few passersby cross near the mouth of the alley, but nobody looks my way. I hurriedly turn my attention to the bag and open it.

  Muffins!

  And most are still secure in their cellophane packaging. I’m excited, and I quickly reach for the unopened ones, shoving them in my backpack as fast as I can before someone else comes by to snoop. When I’m finished, I hurriedly climb the crates and stuff the bag back in the dumpster before hopping down and walking away. My arms wrap around my body, eyes downcast as someone shuffles into the alley in search of food.

  Two months ago, I would have felt bad taking the entire stash, but after weeks of never knowing when my next meal might be, that guilt no longer exists. I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours, and I don’t know the other person’s story. They may have eaten earlier for all I know. It doesn’t pay to make up stories in my mind about others. I need to look out for myself and not worry about anyone else—they’re certainly not going to worry about me.