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In spite of all her previous efforts to stay quiet, she let out a loud “Shit.” Given the circumstances she could probably be forgiven for letting her cool as a cucumber demeanor slip just a wee bit.
She twisted in the air, saying a million rapid-fire prayers to a God she didn’t believe in, and scrabbling to get a handhold on anything. Salvation came in the form of a rusted old drainpipe, which she managed to hook one flailing hand on. Her fall stopped as quickly as it had started, and she help the drainpipe with a white-knuckled grip, wondering if she’d ever catch her breath again.
Creak.
“Oh, come on.” The distinctive sound of groaning metal told her two things: the drainpipe was about to break, and perhaps she should not have had a second helping of the carnitas for dinner.
One of the metal brackets supporting the narrow pipe whined loudly and a bolt popped off of the wall.
Harper scanned the area around her with feverish intensity, knowing she had scant few seco
nds left before her one-way trip to the ground was back on.
There.
A window on the building behind her had been left slightly ajar, and it was just a small enough drop she could probably catch it if she kicked off.
This was, naturally, a big if, because there was a good ten-foot gap in between the two buildings. But, left to choose between a certain death in waiting, and a maybe death in jumping, Harper picked maybe.
In spite of most current evidence to the contrary, Harper Barton really liked being alive.
“Here goes nothing,” she muttered.
Creeeeak, replied the drainpipe.
Harper used her feet to push off from the side of the building, turning her body in the air and hoping like hell she hadn’t underestimated the distance or the drop.
She smacked against the wood frame of the window and hooked both arms over the side before her weight could pull her back down. Taking one—okay seven—breaths to steady herself, she dragged herself through the open space and into the room on the opposite side.
No guards.
No guns.
Just a quiet office with a series of knick-knacks on the desk and more books than the narrow shelves should have been asked to support. Instinctively Harper snooped on the desk to see if any of the items were valuable. A few old coins, and a small metal box that looked Incan, but nothing that would fetch a big price tag. She left them.
Inside, the music was louder, though still at a distance, and now she heard voices added to the mix. Laughter and chit-chat were a new orchestration layered on top of Dvorák.
Most importantly she hadn’t heard anything resembling shouting guards or folks screaming about guns, so she was probably safe for the time being.
Harper smoothed out her dress, pulling the hem back down to knee length, which blessedly hid the smear of orange-red rust she’d acquired on her inner thigh while hanging onto the drainpipe for dear life. With a quick finger comb of her hair and a grandmother-approved pinch of each cheek to fake blush, she might almost look presentable enough for the crowd.
Her kingdom for some lipstick
A flawless red lip went a long way to convince people you were glamorous as hell.
Oh well. Confidence alone would have to get her through the lobby.
One last dust off to be sure she didn’t have any feathers or roof tiles hidden anywhere on her person and Harper flounced out of the office like nothing in the world could have been more natural.
Pretend you belong and people think you belong.
It was one of the first things Johannsson had ever said to her, and that more than any other wisdom he’d imparted had been the thing that stuck out the most. For Harper, who had never truly belonged anywhere, it was much easier to pretend she fit in places than to actually feel like it was true. That’s what made faking it come so naturally.
All of this was an act. One long role-play. And if there was anything Harper could manage with her eyes closed, it was pretending to be someone else.
She moved quickly, but without looking like she was rushing. A large curving stairway took her down from the third floor down to the main area, where the music was louder and there were people everywhere. Her dress was ever so slightly too casual given the floor-length gowns and tuxedos worn by the event guests, but that was also the joy of a little black dress. She might not look as fancy as everyone else, but she also didn’t look entirely out of place. She’d have fit in whether this was a cocktail mixer or an Oscar after-party.
Her hand went up to her chest, double-checking that the amulet was still there.
