Chapter 11
Aurora
The elevator’s echo fades, leaving me in a silence so complete, my own heartbeat drums in my ears. I remain frozen for at least a minute, waiting to see if this is a trick. If Alexei will suddenly leap out from behind a corner and catch me plotting.
Nothing happens.
A few more minutes pass.
He doesn’t come back.
Just me, alone in this concrete cage, with sunlight streaming through windows that might as well be prison bars. I jump to my feet. No time to waste. I need to locate an escape route before he returns.
First, I check the elevator, the most obvious exit route. I press my palm against the cold steel doors, searching for any seam or panel to pry open. No luck. The call button doesn’t even light up when I tap it. Alexei wasn’t kidding about the thumbprint scanner.
That I’m too scared to touch, let alone mess with. For all I know, an alarm will blare if the wrong person’s thumb deigns to nudge the screen.
I eye the small black panel beside the doors, wondering if I could short-circuit the device. There must be an override in case of fire. But without tools, or knowledge of biometric systems, or at the very least, YouTube to teach me new tricks, that idea is hopeless.
Why would a criminal like Alexei follow residency laws and fire code anyway?
Next, I check for other doors. There’s the bathroom, of course, but that window is way too tiny.
A smaller door near the kitchen opens to showcase a closet filled with impeccably organized linens, all in varying shades of gray.
I’m starting to think this guy has a fixation.
Maybe if his childhood contained more rainbows, I wouldn’t be in this position.
A pantry holds enough nonperishable food to survive an apocalypse, including every variation of ramen noodle cups.
I yank open cabinet doors to find them mostly empty.
A few sleek plates. A stack of crystal tumblers.
The refrigerator reveals an even more depressing story, with a loaf of bread wrapped in plastic, a single lime, and rows of bottled water.
Who lives like this? What does the man eat?
The freezer holds only vodka, each bottle arranged with military precision.
Down the hallway, near the bathroom, I discover three more doors.
Cautiously, I open one and find a large bedroom that dwarfs my entire apartment. The same giant windows from the living area continue here, eating up one entire wall.
And of course, the entire thing is decorated in shades of gray. Shocker.
Along the white brick wall, in the center of the giant open area, sits a huge bed, nightstands, and a dresser, all situated on a pale gray rug.
I stop in the middle of the space, arrested by a splash of color against the far wall.
A massive painting, at least six feet wide, dominates the space above the headboard.
Unlike everything else in this sterile environment, the art piece is vibrant, alive with vitality and texture.
Impressionistic brushstrokes capture an island at sunset, the sky bleeding orange and pink over deep blue water.
Small houses dot the coastline, their lights twinkling against the approaching darkness.
On the beach, figures gather, indistinct shapes that together form a group.
Such sterile living quarters, yet this hangs on his wall. What memory does it hold for him? What meaning?
“Okay, Mr. Gray.” I tiptoe farther into his bedroom, scanning for anything dangerous. Lasers. Dogs. Security cameras. “If I find a red room in here…”
Thankfully, I don’t need to complete that sentence.
There’s nothing worth stumbling upon in the room. I can’t open the wall safe because it also requires a fingerprint. Only clothes fill the closet. Dark jeans, white t-shirts, black boots. A few dark suits off to the side.
Does he think he’s an anime character who only changes his appearance for a new series?
I open another door, but my hopes are dashed once I enter.
The master bathroom is a larger version of the one I’ve already used. Except this one contains basic hygiene items. Shampoo, toothbrush, shaving cream, a razor. No personal products beyond the absolute basics.
The last door leads to a smaller bedroom with no signs of life. I wonder when Alexei last had company. Probably never, based on his less than desirable personality.
All dead ends. I head back to the main room.
The silence presses against my ears, almost physical in its intensity. Ten thousand square feet of space, yet I’m suffocating. I spin in a slow circle, evaluating my prison.
The windows taunt me with clear views of the city, of freedom just beyond an uncrossable barrier.
Or is it?
I pivot back to the bathroom door but hesitate, torn between the urgent need to escape and the desperate desire to wash away the remnants of last night.
Blood in my hair.
A dead man’s blood.
I shudder.
Five minutes. I’ll allow myself five minutes to feel human again before I continue searching. Maybe the hot water will help clear my foggy mind.
Decision made, I dart into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.
Probably a pointless act. If Alexei returns, a flimsy interior lock won’t keep him out.
The apartment-sized bathroom is intimidating.
It’s a decent walk from the door to the toilet.
Another to the sink. The tub is in the back half, tiled in slate.
Glass panels and a glass door are held up by shining steel and concrete.
“I could host a dance party in this shower.”
The dimensions are spacious, with multiple showerheads and a control panel that belongs on a spaceship. I fiddle with the buttons until instantly hot water cascades from above.
I peel off the filthy maid costume, wishing I had anything else to wear.
The sight of my naked body in the mirror stops me short.
Bruises bloom on my wrists from the zip ties.
Several more mar my arms and legs, likely from struggling in the car and fighting against Benny.
My knees are scraped. I turn away, unable to confront the physical evidence of what happened.
At least the water is heaven.
I scrub at my skin and hair with rich, sandalwood-scented soap and shampoo, watching pinkish water swirl down the drain. Five minutes, I’d promised myself, but I finish in three.
I dry off quickly, grimacing as I pick up the maid outfit.
My skin crawls at the thought of putting the filthy material back on, but I have no other alternatives.
No time to check for clothes that might not exist. I slip the costume on, the fabric clinging to my damp skin.
A quick rifling through the bathroom drawers rewards me with a travel-sized toothbrush and toothpaste.
After a quick brush, I start to feel human again.
I grab my heels from where I’d left them by the couch. Rather than putting them back on, I hook my fingers through the straps. If I need to run, I’ll be better off barefoot than with these torture devices.
Back to my investigation. I drift to the windows that line the far wall and offer a panoramic view of Chicago. I press my palms against the glass, then my forehead, and peer down. The height is dizzying. I’m ten stories high, with nothing but straight, smooth building face below me.
The glass is cool and unyielding against my skin. I rap my knuckles against it. Thick. Solid. Just as Alexei said. Reinforced polycarbonate. Unbreakable.
But something catches my eye.
Not the glass itself, but the frame around it. The building is old, an industrial conversion, but the original parts are probably early twentieth century. The windows might be new, but these frames? I run my fingers along the metal casement.
Despite careful restoration, the weathered steel shows signs of age. My eye spies what others might miss. The subtle discoloration of old welds, the almost imperceptible sagging at the corners.
My heart quickens.
This is what I do. What I love. My mosaic art is all about understanding how things break, how to exploit their weakest points, how to reassemble broken pieces into something strong and new.
Ancient merged with modern. I’ve spent years studying fracture patterns in tile, glass, pottery, and metals and learning how to blend them together. What will hold. What won’t.
I know weakness when I see it.
There’s a hairline crack where the modern windows meet the century-old frame, hidden near the bottom corner. Someone tried their best, but the old metal was already weathered before being reheated to form the new joinery.
To anyone else, this would be nothing. To me, it’s a glaring vulnerability. The high-tech lock was bolted directly onto the aging, brittle frame. Poor design. A critical fault.
I need leverage. A tool strong enough to take advantage of that weakness.
Spinning around, I catalogue potential options.
The coffee table? Way too cumbersome to lift.
Kitchen implements? Too small for the force I’d need.
Then my gaze lands on the dining area by the kitchen.
Specifically, on the chairs surrounding the table.
They aren’t wood like I first thought. They’re architectural pieces crafted from solid welded steel with angular, pointed legs.
A perfect makeshift crowbar with padded seats.
Heart hammering, I hurry to the dining area, grab one of the chairs, and lug it back to the window. The piece of furniture is heavy as hell, but adrenaline and desperation bolster my strength. I position the chair by the window and study the frame again to pinpoint exactly where to apply force.
I don’t want to break the glass. That’s probably impossible anyway. I want to attack the frame, to exploit that tiny crack where old meets new. I lift the chair and swing it against the casement frame near the weak spot. The impact jolts up my arms, but the crack widens.
Hope blossoms in my chest.
This just might work.
Repositioning myself, I wedge one of the chair’s legs into the tiny gap. I throw my entire body weight onto the chair, using it as a lever to pry the lock away from the frame. Nothing happens at first.
“Come on. Break, dammit.”
I shift again, aiming for a better angle, and muster all the strength I have left for one more swing. This time, I put my whole body into the motion…arms, back, and legs.
For a breathtaking moment, the chair sticks, but nothing else happens.
Then I hear the high, sickening whine of stressed metal. My favorite new noise on the planet.
I push harder, my muscles screaming in protest.
A sharp, definitive plink becomes music to my ears.
The old metal splits right where I predicted, the frame ripping free.
My heart leaps into my throat as I set the chair aside and shove against the window.
It resists at first, then swings outward with surprising ease as the aged, overstressed metal finally snaps in a ragged line.
Traffic noise and summer air flood in.
I lean out, expecting to greet a fatal drop. Instead, I almost cry with relief at the sight of a fire escape. Alexei secured the windows but never bothered to remove the stairs that led away from them. Why would he? He never imagined anyone would—or could—access them.
Clutching my heels in one hand, I ease through the opening. The platform creaks under my weight, decades of rust flaking beneath my bare feet. It’s old and rickety, probably as bad as the window frame I just bullied apart. Pretty sure I’ll need a tetanus shot after this.
Whatever. I’ll happily trade twenty jabs for my freedom.
The wind whips my still-damp hair across my face as I peer at the ground below.
Ten stories is a long way, and for several heart-stopping seconds, dizziness keeps me captive.
The fire escape zigzags down the side of the building in an old-fashioned switchback pattern, each platform connected by a steep ladderlike staircase.
Far below, tiny cars and even smaller people move along the street.
After a deep breath, I begin my descent, the metal cold beneath my feet, the railing rough against my palms.
Don’t look down.
Just keep moving.
One flight at a time.
Behind me, the open window yawns open like a gaping maw. I hope Alexei’s face wears the same expression when he returns to find me gone.