exposing ragged skin. There’s a pulsing patch on my chin and, though it’s vain, I’m pathetically grateful there was no one around to see my jump. In my mind it was a graceful leap, like a long jump athlete, legs extended majestically as I soared to safety. In reality, the toe of my right foot snagged on the retaining wall, sending me toppling onto my hands and face, knocking the wind and bravery right out of me. Now I hiss as I rotate my wrists and ankles, the joints complaining but not squealing. Not broken.
Fingertips touched to the sore spot on my jaw come away predictably bloody. I wince and close my eyes. Chris hadn’t let me bring a purse today, still convinced I have some sort of secret agent gadget just waiting to spring on him. I don’t, but I could really use a tissue and a compact. And some money. Because even if I manage to make it off this rooftop and out of the building, I’m still me. Only bloodier and more obvious than ever.
I don’t know how much time passes before I hear the fire door on the other roof click shut. Pain keeps me prone and I don’t move for another few minutes, eventually pulling myself to a grimacing sitting position. My raw knees screech as I peer over the wall, but the other rooftop is empty. I stay ducked low as I hobble over to the only structure on this roof that might have a door, and find one on the far side.
It’s unlocked.
Sure. Now I get lucky.
I pull open the door and pause. No one punches me in the face. No bullets ricochet past. I enter and slump on the top step, rubbing my temples. Everything hurts. And I’m scared. I don’t know where Chris is, or if he’s alive. I hate that his plan has been semi-successful. I still don’t know if I’m convinced my brother and dad gambled together, but I am convinced someone will kill me to get to the missing money. Whether their motive is greed or debt repayment is irrelevant. It still means I die, and though I’m a little late to the pro-life parade, I now know for certain I want to be part of it.
I push to my feet and wince as I hold the rail, leaving a bloody streak on the metal as I ease my way down the steep stairs to the first fire door.
It’s locked.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Another flight of stairs. Another locked door.
It takes half an hour and fifteen floors before I find a door that wasn’t closed properly. I have nothing to do on the fifteenth floor, no grand plan for how I’ll react if I encounter somebody, but it feels like I’ve been in the stairwell for hours and there’s no way I can manage another fifteen flights. I need an elevator.
Like the building next door, this one is filled with exclusive high-end homes. The light sconces probably cost more than Chris’s pickup. Ditto the flower arrangements stationed in front of the elevators. Once upon a time I might have appreciated this type of thing, or at least spared the energy to mock it. Now I don’t see the point.
I call the elevator and study the fire map on the wall, hoping for some type of secret emergency exit leading to a quiet alley that will whisk me away from all this. There’s no such thing, of course, just a basic building blueprint with clearly marked stairwells and exit points. And a gym.
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I emerge in the lobby in a stolen purple velour track suit, cheap flip-flops, and sunglasses. I couldn’t find anything for my hair so I had to pilfer a complementary white hand towel and tie it over my head like a bandana. Now I half-strut, half-limp across the marble floors like I belong here. I spent twenty-five years cultivating this very same level of entitlement. Now it’s time for it to pay off.
When I emerge out onto the street I immediately spot two black sedans with the driver’s side windows rolled down, dark-suited occupants scanning nearby doorways with serious scowls. They look at me and look away.
I want to go back the way we’d driven in, but the entire block in front of the Chopin Lounge is cordoned off with police tape. Cruisers, ambulances and a fire truck block the road, forcing me to circle the block in the opposite direction. I spot three more