Chapter 19
“It’s irrational,” says Edgar.
We’re still sitting in the cold, dark basement. Edgar’s tiny feet dig gently into my knee.
“What?” I say, shifting my attention back to him. It takes some effort to focus.
“Family.” Edgar’s wings rustle. “You humans and your irrationalities. There are so many.”
“It’s not irrational,” I reply. “But most people would do anything for family.”
Even as the words leave my mouth, it hits me.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh, no.
I stagger to my feet. Edgar clings to me and I scoop him onto my shoulder, where he’ll be safe.
“What is it?” he asks.
“We have to get out of here,” I say. “Right now.”
“All right. Did you come up with a brilliant escape plan in the last five seconds?”
“No.” I put a hand to the wall, steadying myself. “But we have to get out of here. I know what Vale’s after.”
The hallway is lit only by the soft emergency lights. They are embedded in the floor, tracing a path to the exit doors. I stride down the hallway.
I don’t have a plan. I don’t have weapons.
But I’m Augusta Pine. And if anyone can wreck a criminal’s day, it’s me.
I dig into my shoe and come up with Matthew’s ringware. I slip it back onto my thumb and flick my hand.
The building’s blueprints appear before me, tracing lights along hallways and through the walls. There are old notes—probably left over from whoever built this place when it was a hotel. “Come on,” I say, even though Edgar has no choice but to cling to me. “We’re getting out of here.”
“The stairs?” he asks.
I shake my head. “If I were Vale, I’d leave someone there to kill anyone who might try and escape. Or maybe she zip-tied a grenade to the doors so anyone who pushes them open sets it off. We’re not going that way.”
I retrace the path I took when I was fleeing both Corey and the lockdown.
Exposed ductwork gleams overhead and the smell of damp chlorine reminds me that the pool is one floor above.
Every door is locked shut tight: several storage closets, a door at the end of the hallway with metal bars keeping it shut, one room labeled “Sewer Access,” and another entrance to the generator room.
The hallway forms a rectangle, and if I continue, I’ll end up exactly where I started.
And then I see the door I jammed open.
“All right,” I say. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”
“Maybe there’s something useful inside,” says Edgar. “A room full of power tools.”
It’s not full of power tools. It’s a laundry room.
I am greeted by the smell of discarded dryer sheets and moist fabric.
The wall is lined with washers and dryers, there is a table with a forgotten basket of clothes, and at least one of the washers is quietly leaking trails of water. “Okay,” I murmur. “Okay.”
My gaze sweeps over one of the larger vents. Dryers have to blow their hot air to the outside, right? The blueprints glow in my visor, and I see where the vents emerge: on the western edge of the apartment building.
I squat down by one of the dryers. “Maybe we could use these vents to get outside.”
“These vents are too narrow for you to fit.” Edgar crawls higher on my shoulder. There’s a distinct edge of frustration to his voice. “And I can’t fly through them. Not with my broken wing. It would take hours for me to crawl.”
There has to be something. Some way out of here. I refuse to be trapped in a laundry room while Hannah Vale and her not-terrorists win.
The blueprints are little help: All I can see are lines and handwritten notes and—
Along the farthest wall, there is a large, rectangular blank space. It isn’t labeled, and above it, there’s what looks like an elevator shaft. I blink and flick the blueprints from my vision.
Two planks of plywood have been nailed to the wall and painted white to blend in—a landlord special.
“What do you think’s behind that?” I ask.
“Only one way to find out,” says Edgar cheerfully.
I take a screwdriver from the janitor’s cart and manage to jam it under the edge of the plywood. Then I wrench as hard as my shoulders will allow. For a moment, nothing happens. Then something splinters, paint cracks apart, and the wood comes partly free of the wall.
I yank the rest down, coughing as dust fills the room. My heart hammers as I lower the plywood. Maybe there’s an old laundry chute—something Vale and her crew wouldn’t have known or cared about.
It isn’t a chute. There is a small door, like that of a cupboard. It’s perhaps four feet tall and about as wide. For a moment, I don’t know what I’m looking at. Then I get it.
“What is that?” asks Edgar.
“Dumbwaiter,” I say.
“Asshole,” retorts Edgar.
I wave my hand at the sealed door. “No, a dumbwaiter! You know, like a tiny freight elevator? They were usually used in hotels … which explains why this is here.”
Edgar sounds doubtful. “That still sounds problematic.”
“You’re not wrong.” I lean closer. “The rental company must have just covered it up because it was cheaper than actually disconnecting everything.”
Someone tried to hide the controls with a metal panel.
I dig the edge of the screwdriver between wall and panel and pry it free.
Beneath are buttons for the floors of the building.
Likely to send up food trays or deliveries.
I hit the button for the basement. If the building managers only bothered to board up the elevator, maybe they didn’t take the time to disconnect it from the generator power. Maybe it’ll still work.
“Please have power,” I breathe. “Please, please, please—”
A whirring noise emanates from within. There is a grinding crunch and the dumbwaiter descends into view.
“Yes,” I hiss, triumphant.
“You cannot be serious,” says Edgar. “You’re going to get into that?”
It’ll be tight. This elevator is not meant for people. And I don’t know the weight limit—but I have to risk it.
Because now, I know what’s at stake.
The elevator creaks worryingly as I squeeze inside. “This is fine,” I say. “This is fine.”
“Speak for yourself,” says Edgar. “I can’t fly right now. If we fall, we’ll both end up … damaged.”
“We’re in the basement. If we fall, we’ll fall like ten feet.”
“And if the elevator gives out on the third floor?”
“Then hope whoever finds my backpack doesn’t recycle your computer,” I say as I reach outside and hit the button for the third floor.
The elevator smells like aged wood. I press my back to one wall, putting a hand on the other to brace myself. Despite my glib words, my pulse is throbbing.
The doors slide shut and I feel a jerk beneath me. Edgar burrows into my collar. His fuzzy body tickles against my throat. I don’t know if spybots can feel fear or if he’s using me as a meat shield in case we fall.
I wish I had something to hold on to. It might make this journey easier.
There is a metal click, then the elevator begins to climb. It’s far slower than a normal elevator, inching upward.
The climb takes perhaps five minutes, but it feels like an hour. Then the elevator shudders to a creaky halt and the doors jerk open. But there’s only darkness before me.
“Did we stop between floors?” Edgar says.
I touch a finger to the barrier before me. It isn’t cold concrete or hard metal. It’s soft and … papery?
I push on it and something comes free, falling onto the floor below.
Then I’m staring at the shadowy hallway of the third floor. “Come on,” I whisper, ducking out of the elevator and staggering out into the hallway.
A framed art print was placed over the elevator’s small entrance.
I recognize it as Pierre Subleyras’s Justice.
I suppose it was cheaper to find a ten-dollar print and cover the entrance to the dumbwaiter than to plaster over it.
I hang the print back in place. Hopefully no one will notice that it’s slightly crooked and torn.
Then I’m hurrying toward Nonna’s apartment. I don’t care that I’m injured; I don’t care that I’m heading toward the danger; I don’t care about any of it. I need to see her, to be sure she’s all right.
I pluck Edgar from my shoulder and place him on the doorframe. “Stay here and watch the hallway. If anyone comes near, let me know. All right?”
“I will,” he says.
I take half a step back, then I say, “Thank you.”
It’s not just for watching the hallway. It’s for always having my back, for being the one thing that can make me laugh, for saving my life, and for just … being there.
Edgar doesn’t seem to know what to say. “Yes,” he says. “Of course.”
I knock at Nonna’s door as loudly as I dare.
I wait, my heart throbbing hard, and then the door swings open.
It isn’t Nonna.
“You’re alive,” Eames breathes. And then he’s pulling me into a rib-cracking hug.
For a moment, I don’t quite know how to react.
My skin is oversensitive, my body clenched like I’m about to touch a live wire.
The warmth of him is intoxicating. My body is cold and aching and he’s sturdy against me.
Part of me yearns to close my eyes and lean into him, to accept the wordless comfort he offers.
I pull back and he does the same. A flush crosses his sharp cheekbones and his gaze slants away. “Sorry. I just—I was sure you were dead.”
I cross my arms, if only to put something between us.
“I’m glad you’re alive.” He runs a hand through his hair. “How did you escape them?”
I shrug. “I’m really hard to kill. Even I couldn’t manage it.”
He opens his mouth to ask, but I push past him.
Nonna is in the kitchen. One of the gas ranges is lit and a lighter rests on the counter. “Oh, thank goodness,” she says, looking up from the kettle. Only my grandmother would make hot tea in August during a blackout. “You’re okay. When that boy came back without you…”
My throat tightens.
She has no reason to care. I’m a stranger to her.
But she does care—and even the barest sliver of her caring makes me feel fragile.
I miss her. I miss her so much and she’s right in front of me.
She’s the one whose arms I want to step into, to fit myself against her and let myself be small and safe.
“I’m fine,” I say, forcing a smile. “Everything quiet here?”
Nonna nods. “No sign of the criminals.”
I exhale hard. “Okay. Good.” Straightening my back, I head for the living room.
Aunt Connie stands near the sliding glass door, her gaze focused on the world beyond.
Her gun rests on the steamer trunk. Eames sits beside his sister on the love seat, murmuring quietly to her.
All the while, he scratches absentmindedly at his left hand, just above his electron-ink tattoo.
He has carved small white lines into his tan.
“You shouldn’t scratch,” I say, crossing my arms. “You could risk damaging the nanotechnology before it sets up.”
Eames looks up sharply. “What?”
“Your tattoo,” I say. “It’s new. That’s why you weren’t in the pool. Piper’s still a little young to get inked, so no one would wonder why she would have a paper and plastic ID.”
“No,” says Eames, “I just—”
I can’t believe it took me so long to figure this out.
“Will,” I say.
And Eames twitches. Like a puppet with the wrong string pulled.
I remember Carla’s gasp. I remember how she tried to aim away from him when he stepped between me and a gun. I remember how he cut her off when she began to ask a question.
But she wasn’t saying “Will you—”
She was saying, “Will, you—”
It wasn’t a question at all. She was saying his name. She recognized him. She knew him. I should have realized earlier when Carla kept trying to speak to him.
“Will,” I repeat quietly. “It suits you better than Eames.”
“Augusta?” says Piper, nerves simmering beneath her voice.
“Hannah Vale isn’t here for stolen government property,” I say. “She’s here for you. For Persephone.”
“What are you talking about?” says Piper, but her face betrays her. She’s too young to be a truly good liar yet.
“Hannah Vale,” I say, “is your mom.”