The first hit against my door rattled the frame so hard my spatula slipped out of my hand and smacked the floor.The second made Nick jump in his chair.Dad?” he called from the table, pencil frozen over his math worksheet.
I wiped my palms on a dish towel and headed for the door, every muscle remembering a different kind of emergency from two nights earlier—the sirens, the smoke, the feeling of someone’s life in my arms.
When I cracked the door open, a man in his fifties was already leaning toward it like he meant to push his way in.Red face, expensive watch, hair slicked back with something that smelled like drugstore cologne and stale coffee.
“We need to talk,” he snapped.
“Okay,” I said slowly, wedging my foot behind the door. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, I know what you did,” he said, jabbing a finger at my chest. “You did it on purpose. You’re a disgrace.”Behind me, I heard Nick’s chair scrape back.
I shifted, blocking the doorway with my body. “Who are you,” I asked, “and what do you think I did?”
He bared his teeth in something that wasn’t quite a smile.I know she left the apartment to you,” he hissed. “You think I’m stupid? You manipulated her. You saved her during that fire because you knew.”I know she left the apartment to you,” he hissed. “You think I’m stupid? You manipulated her. You saved her during that fire because you knew.”My brain did a strange, stuttering jump back to the beginning.
Tuesday night. Spaghetti. Fake cooking show.
Our ninth-floor place is small—two bedrooms, leaky pipes, windows that rattle in the wind. It’s also way too quiet for three years now, ever since Nick’s mom died. Some days it still feels like the air is holding its breath, waiting for her to walk in with grocery bags and bad jokes.That night, the whole place smelled like jarred tomato sauce and garlic.
“More Parmesan for you, sir?” Nick asked, pretending to sprinkle cheese like some TV chef, managing to hit more table than bowl.
“That’s enough, Chef,” I said, grabbing the shaker. “We already have an overflow of cheese here.”
He smirked, shoved a forkful into his mouth, and launched into a story about a math problem he’d solved “faster than literally everyone.”Our neighbor’s TV murmured through the thin wall. The pipes in the bathroom knocked once like they were annoyed with us. It was one of those ordinary nights that you don’t know you’ll remember until something splits your life into before and after.Then the fire alarm went off.
At first, I waited for it to stop. We get false alarms so often that half the building barely looks up when it happens. But this time, the usual beeps merged into one long, angry scream that drilled into my skull.
Then I smelled it—real smoke. Bitter. Chemical. The kind that tells you something somewhere is very wrong.
“Jacket. Shoes. Now,” I said.Gray smoke was already creeping along the ceiling of the hallway like a low cloud. Someone coughed. Someone else yelled, “Move, move, GO!”
“The elevator?” Nick asked, voice thin.
The panel lights were dead. Doors shut.
“Stairs,” I said. “Stay in front of me. Hand on the rail. Don’t stop unless I say.”
We hit the stairwell and joined the river of people flowing downward—bare feet, pajamas, kids crying, somebody clutching a cat carrier that meowed like an alarm of its own.
