She takes a deep breath. “At least we’re safe.”
Of course, that’s when the dumbwaiter dies.
26
There’s a terrible groan and the dumbwaiter shudders to a halt. We wait in complete darkness, suspended in space.
We don’t fall. We don’t rise, either.
I relax a degree. Death doesn’t seem imminent. I say, “This one is your fault. You jinxed us.”
“That’s fair,” says Piper. “Or maybe this thing’s just really old.”
“Pretty sure the weight limit was meant for suitcases, not two people.” I shift on my knees.
“Are we stuck, then?”
I reach up, feeling around for a seam or a hinge. My fingers catch on something that feels like a lever. I twist counterclockwise, hoping that it’s some kind of emergency release. There’s a creak of metal on metal, a squeal of protest, and then that something swings free.
“Okay,” I say. “There’s a hatch at the top of this thing. We can get out.”
“What if everything gives way?” she asks nervously.
“Then at least you won’t have to worry about your custody issues.”
I angle one arm through, then the other. The air smells of stale dust and drywall. Finally, I’m crouched atop thesmall elevator, my visor’s night vision affording me some sight.
There are grooves in the side of the shaft. They’re probably not meant to be handholds—but they’ll serve well enough.
“Okay,” I say. “Do you trust me?”
There’s a moment of silence.
“Hey,” I say. “Feeling slightly offended here.”
“Sorry,” says Piper. “I nodded. I do. Trust you, I mean.”
I reach into the elevator. “Find my hand. I’ll get you out.”
Her fingers fumble against mine. I take hold of her wrist and pull. It takes a moment, but I manage to lift her up and out. We perch atop the dumbwaiter. I take Piper’s hand and place it on one of the grooves. “You feel that?”
“Yes.”
“We’re going to climb up and out,” I say. “Judging by how long we were in there, I’m guessing we’re between the first and second floors. Our way out is on the third. We only need to climb that far. You do much climbing?”
“Trees,” she says. “Around where we used to live.”
“Okay, then this will be easy,” I say, forcing lightness into my voice. “You’ll go first, so I can grab you if anything goes wrong. Not that I think it’ll go wrong,” I add hastily.
The truth is, I’m far less enthused about this plan than I’m letting on. Heights are one of those fears that can slice through my composure, rendering me dry-mouthed and panicky.
I watch as she finds her handholds by touch alone. The line of her shoulders is tense but not terrified. She beginsto climb, reaching up to find the next groove before setting down her feet. In this case, bare feet help her; her toes scrabble for purchase with far more ease than my sneakers. She didn’t lie—she is a good climber. She has that wiry strength of childhood.
I wait for her to get up a few handholds, then I take a breath. Beneath me, the elevator shivers.
Together, we scale the narrow shaft. We don’t hurry; wecan’t. As much as I want up and out of this place, I know the real danger is in slipping.
I hate this. I hate every moment of it. The animal part of my body is reacting with clammy palms and the bitter taste of fear.
