want to get her busted, I’d just wanted to see where she’d gone. The tracks lead around the corner. The trail is fainter on this side, because of the wind. “These probably aren’t even hers,” I try.
He grunts, plods. We follow them around another corner, along Steven Street at the back of the building. A whoosh of wind lifts my hair and my skirt. I rub my arms, wishing for a coat, and something more than fuzzy little boots, but at least I don’t still have kitten heels on.
The wind has all but erased the footprints back here. Up ahead, I spot a mountain bike chained to the base of the fire escape—it’s too covered with snow to tell for sure, but it looks a lot like Shelby’s. Shelby does winter ride, but why would her bike be here?
The officer sighs.
“I’ve seen enough,” I say. “Clearly she took a cab.”
“No cabs run during curfew.”
“Some other ride then. It doesn’t matter anyway, right? It’s all just meaningless, right?” I turn and bolt back the way we came. The listless officer follows, thank goodness.
She could’ve left the bike here ages ago, though it didn’t have quite enough snow piled on it for that. Or maybe it’s not hers. Or she could be in the building, and she’s planning to ride it home. But in a cocktail dress during a curfew?
Back inside, I shake the snow off my hair and clothes. “She’ll be fine,” I say to Sammy.
I head back around to the elevator.
“Find it?” Norman asks when the doors open.
I step in, wondering what he's talking about. Then I remember. The book. “No.”
He hits the top button. “Snowing in the garage?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I popped outside for a sec. Just needed a bit of fresh air.”
He’s silent a bit, then, “Shouldn’t do that.”
“I know, but…” I place a hand on my stomach and stick out my tongue.
He nods. I watch the numbers flit from five to six to seven. We stop at eight and I bid him a good night.
Back inside, I grab my phone and call Shelby, hardly surprised when she doesn’t answer. I head into the living room and put my forehead to the back window.
Shelby’s main mission these days seems to be revenge on Killer of Avery . Packard, in other words. I think about her strange interest in the seventh floor—is it possible she thinks Packard is sealed down there? If Otto had caught Packard, the seventh floor would be the last place he’d put him. Is it possible Shelby’s not thinking straight?
Kenzo’s in the kitchen. And the sliver of light under Otto’s office door tells me he’s still busy revitalizing.
Quietly I grab the little fireplace broom. I creep back to the window, slide it open, and lean out into the biting wind to brush some snow off our fire-escape landing so I can see through the metal slats to the seventh floor fire-escape landing.
And I don’t like what I find. Though the snow’s pretty well windswept, I can tell somebody was up there recently. Is she in there?
I set down the little broom and tuck my dress into my panties, making it a kind of poofy minidress, and swing my legs out.
The wind blows harder and colder up here; I lower the window and sneak down the steps.
The seventh floor window is partly open. I creep closer. Strains of music from inside. Something old. Jethro Tull? The large room is littered with tools, tarps, and two-by-fours. Nothing but a construction zone, just as I told her. But apparently that wasn’t good enough, because I spot small puddles leading into the interior. Great.
I push the window all the way open, and climb over the sill. With icy fingers, I lower the window back to its original position, grateful for the warmth and the cover of the music, which is actually pretty loud.
I sneak along the puddle path, trying to stay generally inside it and not make new puddles. Part of me wants to call out and confront her, but there’s always the chance she really did tear off into the night. And that this is somebody else.
The music comes from
He grunts, plods. We follow them around another corner, along Steven Street at the back of the building. A whoosh of wind lifts my hair and my skirt. I rub my arms, wishing for a coat, and something more than fuzzy little boots, but at least I don’t still have kitten heels on.
The wind has all but erased the footprints back here. Up ahead, I spot a mountain bike chained to the base of the fire escape—it’s too covered with snow to tell for sure, but it looks a lot like Shelby’s. Shelby does winter ride, but why would her bike be here?
The officer sighs.
“I’ve seen enough,” I say. “Clearly she took a cab.”
“No cabs run during curfew.”
“Some other ride then. It doesn’t matter anyway, right? It’s all just meaningless, right?” I turn and bolt back the way we came. The listless officer follows, thank goodness.
She could’ve left the bike here ages ago, though it didn’t have quite enough snow piled on it for that. Or maybe it’s not hers. Or she could be in the building, and she’s planning to ride it home. But in a cocktail dress during a curfew?
Back inside, I shake the snow off my hair and clothes. “She’ll be fine,” I say to Sammy.
I head back around to the elevator.
“Find it?” Norman asks when the doors open.
I step in, wondering what he's talking about. Then I remember. The book. “No.”
He hits the top button. “Snowing in the garage?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I popped outside for a sec. Just needed a bit of fresh air.”
He’s silent a bit, then, “Shouldn’t do that.”
“I know, but…” I place a hand on my stomach and stick out my tongue.
He nods. I watch the numbers flit from five to six to seven. We stop at eight and I bid him a good night.
Back inside, I grab my phone and call Shelby, hardly surprised when she doesn’t answer. I head into the living room and put my forehead to the back window.
Shelby’s main mission these days seems to be revenge on Killer of Avery . Packard, in other words. I think about her strange interest in the seventh floor—is it possible she thinks Packard is sealed down there? If Otto had caught Packard, the seventh floor would be the last place he’d put him. Is it possible Shelby’s not thinking straight?
Kenzo’s in the kitchen. And the sliver of light under Otto’s office door tells me he’s still busy revitalizing.
Quietly I grab the little fireplace broom. I creep back to the window, slide it open, and lean out into the biting wind to brush some snow off our fire-escape landing so I can see through the metal slats to the seventh floor fire-escape landing.
And I don’t like what I find. Though the snow’s pretty well windswept, I can tell somebody was up there recently. Is she in there?
I set down the little broom and tuck my dress into my panties, making it a kind of poofy minidress, and swing my legs out.
The wind blows harder and colder up here; I lower the window and sneak down the steps.
The seventh floor window is partly open. I creep closer. Strains of music from inside. Something old. Jethro Tull? The large room is littered with tools, tarps, and two-by-fours. Nothing but a construction zone, just as I told her. But apparently that wasn’t good enough, because I spot small puddles leading into the interior. Great.
I push the window all the way open, and climb over the sill. With icy fingers, I lower the window back to its original position, grateful for the warmth and the cover of the music, which is actually pretty loud.
I sneak along the puddle path, trying to stay generally inside it and not make new puddles. Part of me wants to call out and confront her, but there’s always the chance she really did tear off into the night. And that this is somebody else.
The music comes from
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