Page 106 of The Cost of Silence

His voice gentles. “I know. Breathe. I’ll call you back in five.”

He hangs up before I can cling.

I set the phone down and take a breath. Then another. Then a third.

“It’s fine,” I tell myself. “Could’ve been nothing. Could’ve been a confused delivery guy. You’re safe. There are men in the hall, cameras everywhere. This isn’t your old building. This is different.”

My ribs twinge like they disagree.

I make tea. Because that’s what you do when your amygdala is screaming and you’re trying to be civilized about it.

Ten minutes later, Nico calls back. “Security saw a man on our floor, no uniform, carrying a box, talking to Simon, the new kid,” he says without preamble. “He never went near another floor. Only yours. By the time Rossi got to the exit, he was gone.”

Cold trickles down my spine. “Okay,” I whisper.

“There are more men outside now. They’re checking the stairwells and maintenance access. You stay inside. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

He exhales slowly, the sound of it rough in my ear. “I’m coming home.”

“No, don’t you dare. I know this meeting is important.”

“Not more important than you, Bella.”

I smile to myself. “That’s sweet, but I’m fine and if I think my being here is going to mess with your work, I’ll go and stay with my mother.”

“Over my dead body.”

“I mean it, Nico, take your meeting.”

I hear another deep sigh and can picture his frown. “Fine, but after this meeting, I’m coming home. Couple of hours, tops.”

“You don’t have t—”

“I want to.”

That should not make my eyes sting. And yet it does. “Okay,” I say softly. “I’ll be here.”

We hang up.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a haze of pretending I’m fine. I answer some emails, jot down notes, organize the ornaments we didn’t get to last night. I put on a movie in the background for noise.

By three, I’ve almost convinced myself it was a weird blip in an otherwise safe day.

That’s when the fire alarm goes off.

The shriek of it is instant and absolute, splitting the quiet in two. Red strobes flash along the ceiling, and a recorded voice kicks in over the speakers: “Attention. Attention. Please proceed to the nearest exit.”

My body reacts before my brain does.

One second, I’m standing in the living room, the next my heart is in my throat, my chest squeezed tight.

“Not again,” I whisper. “Please not again.”

The alarm keeps howling.

I grab my phone, shove my feet into the nearest shoes, and wrench the door open.