I yank the rest down, coughing as dust fills the room. My heart hammers as I lower the plywood. Maybe there’s an old laundry chute—something Vale and her crew wouldn’t have known or cared about.
It isn’t a chute. There is a small door, like that of a cupboard. It’s perhaps four feet tall and about as wide. For a moment, I don’t know what I’m looking at. Then I get it.
“What is that?” asks Edgar.
“Dumbwaiter,” I say.
“Asshole,” retorts Edgar.
I wave my hand at the sealed door. “No, a dumbwaiter! You know, like a tiny freight elevator? They were usually used in hotels… which explains why this is here.”
Edgar sounds doubtful. “That still sounds problematic.”
“You’re not wrong.” I lean closer. “The rental company must have just covered it up because it was cheaper than actually disconnecting everything.”
Someone tried to hide the controls with a metal panel. I dig the edge of the screwdriver between wall and panel and pry it free. Beneath are buttons for the floors of the building. Likely to send up food trays or deliveries. I hit the button for the basement. If the building managers only bothered to board up the elevator, maybe they didn’t takethe time to disconnect it from the generator power. Maybe it’ll still work.
“Please have power,” I breathe. “Please, please, please—”
A whirring noise emanates from within. There is a grinding crunch and the dumbwaiter descends into view.
“Yes,” I hiss, triumphant.
“You cannot be serious,” says Edgar. “You’re going to get into that?”
It’ll be tight. This elevator is not meant for people. And I don’t know the weight limit—but I have to risk it.
Because now, Iknowwhat’s at stake.
The elevator creaks worryingly as I squeeze inside. “This is fine,” I say. “This is fine.”
“Speak for yourself,” says Edgar. “I can’t fly right now. If we fall, we’ll both end up… damaged.”
“We’re in the basement. If we fall, we’ll fall like ten feet.”
“And if the elevator gives out on the third floor?”
“Then hope whoever finds my backpack doesn’t recycle your computer,” I say as I reach outside and hit the button for the third floor.
The elevator smells like aged wood. I press my back to one wall, putting a hand on the other to brace myself. Despite my glib words, my pulse is throbbing.
The doors slide shut and I feel a jerk beneath me. Edgar burrows into my collar. His fuzzy body tickles against my throat. I don’t know if spybots can feel fear or if he’s using me as a meat shield in case we fall.
I wish I had something to hold on to. It might make this journey easier.
There is a metal click, then the elevator begins to climb. It’s far slower than a normal elevator, inching upward.
The climb takes perhaps five minutes, but it feels like an hour. Then the elevator shudders to a creaky halt and the doors jerk open. But there’s only darkness before me.
“Did we stop between floors?” Edgar says.
I touch a finger to the barrier before me. It isn’t cold concrete or hard metal. It’s soft and… papery?
I push on it and something comes free, falling onto the floor below.
Then I’m staring at the shadowy hallway of the third floor. “Come on,” I whisper, ducking out of the elevator and staggering out into the hallway.
A framed art print was placed over the elevator’s small entrance. I recognize it as Pierre Subleyras’sJustice. I suppose it was cheaper to find a ten-dollar print and cover the entrance to the dumbwaiter than to plaster over it. I hang the print back in place. Hopefully no one will notice that it’s slightly crooked and torn.
