Another flash. Closer still. Nearly on top of them.
I break into a run, dodging between people, and just as the shimmer seems to reappear right next to Teller, I lunge at it. I land on the table, hard, pain ripping through my shoulder. The table splinters and cracks, splitting in the middle—of course we used the cheap shit for the trillionaires—and then there are hands on me, pulling me off and away. Voices yelling. No one is happy about this. Least of all me.
I manage to get my bearings, struggle back to my feet, and I’m staring down Grayson. The light catches his silver tie clip as he pulls a gun from the inside of his jacket. It must have looked like I was attacking Teller just now.
The gun clears and I know what’s coming next.
I saw it.
But that gives me the edge.
I duck to the side, away from the line of fire. At the same time, I put one hand against the gun and the other in the crook of his elbow, folding his arm back. All I mean to do is direct the bullet into the ceiling. In a crowd like this, it’s the only way to make sure no one gets shot. The bullet won’t ricochet or travel through to the lobby. It’ll embed safely in the ceiling.
Instead the bullet embeds in Grayson’s chin, blowing out the back of his head.
As he rag-dolls to the ground, the room explodes. A body slams into me, knocking me to the floor, and black fabric fills my vision. It takes me a second to realize that it’s Eshe, her burka draped over my face, as she presses my hands together across my chest.
* * *
—
The floor of the holding cell is cold and hard underneath me. It makes me feel bad for all the people I’ve put in here. Not that it’s been a whole lot of people. Mostly just drunks who need a little while to cool off, or that one time, that guy we found beating on his wife at three in the morning, and we needed to keep him contained until the cops showed up.
Not just cold and hard, but gritty, too. Like someone spilled sand in here before painting over it. It makes me wish there was a bench. Even just a chair. I should put one in here. I reach my hand out and press the white painted wall, find there’s blood on the back of my hand. Still crimson red. Fresh.
The blood matches the color of my blazer.
The green door at the far end of the holding room opens and Allyn comes in. The look on his face is so grave it may as well be etched. Here lies the career of January Cole. He stands for a few moments, unsure of what to say. He keeps his distance, like I’m a wild tiger chained to the wall. After a beat he steps forward and leans down so he’s more on eye level with me.
“I need to know why you did that.”
“I don’t even know if I can trust you. I don’t even know who you are.”
Allyn’s shoulders slump. “January, it’s me. I am here to help you. But after what you just did, I’m not sure if I can. You’ve been holding shit back since I got here. I know that you have been, and I let you, because I trust you. Now I need you to trust me.”
“You didn’t see it?” I ask.
“See what?”
“The ghost,” I say. “It was going after him. It was going to kill him. I was trying to save him.”
“January,” Allyn says, starting a thought, then dropping it. He looks away, and his face falls. He’s resigning himself to some level of defeat, and I can tell that I’ve let him down. That something he believed about me has been broken. It hurts in a way that I haven’t felt hurt since the day Mena died. I know I can be a prick but Allyn and his trust in me was always a rock. Something to be sure about. I’ve worn it down to a grain of sand, and the tide is taking it away.
Which makes me think that, yes, Allyn is real. Our memories are real. Why else would it feel like I’m drowning?
“It was going to kill him,” I say, my voice dropping, to a place where it sounds like I’m not even sure I believe myself.
“This is my fault,” he says, pressing his hands to his face, standing. “I knew you were in the second stage. And I figured—you’re January Fucking Cole. You’d handle it. That’s what you do. But your behavior the last few days. We should have pulled you from this when we found you tearing up that wall.”
“Allyn, I know this is hard to understand,” I tell him. “I know I’ve been…” I drop my head. “I know I’ve been me. But you have to believe me. There’s something at play here and I think I’m finally seeing how the pieces come together.”
“Just cool your jets here for a little,” Allyn says. “I’m going to do everything in my power to protect you. I feel like that’s what I owe you. I feel like I failed you.” The corner of his lip curls, like he’s about to offer a smile, but then he pulls it back. “I’ll do the best I can.”
He crosses to the door and leaves.
I touch the floor. Remembering this moment. Not really thankful knowing that my perception finally caught up with my timeline. Should have put a key in here or something.
I get up and pace. Touch the walls. Peer out through the small security-wired window into the office, where Allyn is talking to Nik. The panel is soundproofed so I can’t hear them but Allyn is doing most of the talking. They both leave. I walk the four walls of the room, looking for something, anything, but there isn’t even a window. It’s just a box.
I do remember something. Something I may have left behind.
On the far end of the room is a little crack in the stonework, high up, near the ceiling. I put my hand inside and find what I’m looking for—three strike-anywhere matches. I take them in my hand and sit back down.
Useless, really. Can’t exactly burn my way out of this place. I used to stash them up here because sometimes, on rainy days, or lazy days, I would sneak in here for a cigarette, when I didn’t want to cross the lobby. I tried to limit it. Not smoking indoors and all that. Plus, the circulation in here isn’t great, so the odor would just linger.
I strike a match against the floor. It erupts and I hold it out in front of me. Watch the little oval of red and orange and blue on the end, the movement of my breath making it dance.
And then there was Mena, always on top of me for it.
Mena, who even when that cold knocked out her sense of smell, always knew when I smoked.
The fire creeps down the wooden matchstick.
Mena, who couldn’t smell the gas that had accumulated in the kitchen.
That smell isn’t even real. Natural gas is odorless. But they add a chemical called mercaptan, which simulates the smell of rotting eggs, so that you know there’s a leak.
There was no way for Mena to tell the place had filled with gas, that it should have been evacuated. No, she was just in there working late as the gas built up. In a hotel like this, where a full spa package can run ten grand or more, we didn’t have a better system for gas shutoff or detection. Boggles my mind.