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Chapter Twenty-Five
A firefighter is nice enough to give me one of those metallic blankets that they use to keep people from going into shock. He seems more concerned about that I don’t have shoes or a jacket on, than he is about the hotel that might be burning down right in front of us. I’m still freezing, but it’s better than nothing. The shivers that make my teeth clack and wrack my body like mini-seizures probably don’t have that much to do with the cold.
Once Drake assured himself that I was under the watch of emergency workers, he disappeared into the crowd to look for Felicia.
But I already know he won’t have an easy time finding her. Hundreds of people have spilled out onto the streets. The hotel might not have been fully occupied, but there are enough people to make it look like a playoff game just got out.
I don’t have any reason for the pessimism, but I can’t fight off the feeling like something terrible is about to happen.
People crowd on the streets outside of the hotel. Firefighters have already gone inside, but they moved slowly like they didn’t consider this a serious emergency. Occasionally, a guest will trickle out with that look you get when sirens blow you out of sleep. But the flow has eased enough that pretty much everyone has to have been evacuated by now.
Prickles of cold feel like pins and needles on the bottom of my feet. Even when I huddle under the metallic blanket with my toes tucked up under my thighs, the cold remains. The weather can’t be blamed for that feeling, at least not completely.
Paramedics stand idly around me. Several other people have had their blood pressure taken or a metallic blanket wrapped around their shoulders.
Dawn has clearly broken over the horizon, casting hazy light on the windows. My gaze moves over them, but there is no hint of any flames licking up through the glass.
“It’s all contained,” one firefighter says to another. “Looks like a guest was putting out cigarettes in the wastebasket and a bunch of papers caught on fire. There’s just some damage to the wall in that one room.”
“People never learn,” the other replies.
I feel a pang of relief.
“The paper didn’t have anything written on it, like someone just ripped it off the pad and threw it away. And it was shredded into a pile, fluffed up, which made it catch easier. Marshal said whatever idiot did this couldn’t have made it more flammable if they tried.”
That relief is immediately chased away by a sense of unease. What are the chances that someone would accidentally light their trashcan on fire, especially in a hotel where every room is a non-smoking one?
They couldn’t have made it more flammable if they tried.
Someone did this on purpose.
“What floor was the fire on?” I ask.
One firefighter glances over at me, seeming surprised that I’d been listening in on their conversation. “The penthouse—”
The other one interrupts him. “That’s privileged information, ma’am, until the fire marshal makes his final report.”
But it’s too late. I’m already caught on what the first firefighter said. The penthouse.
Drake’s room.
An older woman strides up with a shivering Chihuahua tucked under her arm. “When we can go back inside?”
“As soon as we get an all-clear from the fire marshal. Shouldn’t be long.”
I don’t have to ask to know that their idea of a long time probably doesn’t match up to mine all that well. It could be another hour of us loitering outside before they let anyone go back to their rooms.
Familiar faces appear in the crowd although no one approaches me. A few Havoc House pledges stand in the shadow of a neighboring building, looking rumpled enough that I doubt they’ve actually been to bed. A paper bag that obviously contains a bottle of liquor is furtively passed and forth between them.
Public drinking isn’t legal here, assuming any of them are even legal to drink at all. But that doesn’t seem to matter to them.
The rules don’t apply to Havoc House. I’ve had that drilled into my head enough times at this point to believe it.
My feet are frozen solid by the time I get across the street. I step on the edge of the blanket as I come to a stop in front of them.
I hold out my hand. “Give it to me.”
The pledge with the bag in his hand only hesitates for a second before handing it over. I take a long swig, letting the alcohol burn a trail down my throat that settles in my stomach with a burst of heat. This is the cheap shit and drinking it is basically asking for a nasty hangover, but it still helps.
