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I lunge for the fire extinguisher—exactly where Mrs. Plimpton said it would be—and snatch it up. It’s still cool to the touch, a stark contrast to the fire I’m about to approach. Then I run. Through the smoke and past the shelves of books and to the hallway leading to Thea’s office.
The hallway partially filled with spreading flames.
Orange licking up one wall, smoke thick on the ceiling. Filled with the acrid smell of wood and plastic and chemicals burning.
And beyond the growing fire, several doors. Doors that Thea opened for me when she gave me a tour weeks ago. Her office. An employee lounge. A storage closet.
Is Thea trapped in her office? Why wouldn’t she have climbed out the window? Or at least signaled for help?
There’s no way to know without checking. Which means I need to try to put this fire out. Or at least dampen it as much as possible.
Am I doing this? Running toward flames without any backup or equipment? Risking my life? What about Laila?
But I’ve trained for this. Spent hours studying fire patterns and strategies for entering buildings. I know how to use this extinguisher to its maximum capacity. And if I don’t go through, if I wait for the other firefighters to get here, it might be too late.
Not Thea. I’m not losing the first woman I’ve ever truly loved.
So I pull the pin and get ready to move. Aiming low at first, spraying in a sweeping motion. Then up the wall, trying to catch the flames before they spread further.
For a few terrible seconds, it seems like it isn’t working. I’m shouting Thea’s name as I frantically try to put out the fire, begging her to answer.
But there’s nothing. And the fire surges, fighting back against my attempts.
Please. One word keeps repeating in my head. Please.
And then my plea is answered. At least one of them.
The flames subside, fizzling into smoking ashes.
Smoke still hangs heavy in the hallway; I’m coughing between words, and my voice is hoarse and rasping. My lungs burn. My chest aches.
It’s nothing compared to the terror tearing at me.
I’m about to reach for Thea’s office door, bracing myself for the inevitable burn from the heated metal. Then I see it.
Not her door, but the one at the end of the hall. The storage closet. And there’s something wedged in front of it.
Leaping over the smoldering debris, I drop to my knees to get a closer look. And an inferno of rage erupts inside me. A piece of wood—a wedge-shaped doorstop—jammed at the base of the door to block it.
To trap Thea inside?
Oh, God.
In the moment before the door opens, terror and hope battle for dominance. What will I see?
An empty room? Thea inside, but hurt? Tied up? Gagged? Or—
No. I won’t accept it.
I kick the wedge with all the rage I’m feeling, and yank the door open.
My heart stops. Goes cold. My veins fill with ice.
No.
Thea. Crumpled on the floor. Her hair covering her face. Motionless.
I crash to my knees beside her.
