The Fastest Way to Fall(31)

“Yeah, I guess we—” My phone buzzed, and I pulled it off my desk. As I stared at the message, my words froze in my throat.


B: Help



I typed a quick reply.


Wes: What’s wrong?



She didn’t respond, and I fell into the sound of my pounding heart. I hit the call button. We’d never talked on the phone, but it went straight to voice mail, and I hung up as soon as I heard the automated click.

“What’s wrong?” Cord asked, sitting forward in his chair. “Your sister?”

“No, the client. It just says help. Something’s wrong.”

Startled, Cord looked up. “What are you going to do?”

I hit the phone icon, and it went to voice mail again. “This is Britta. Leave a message.” Her real name. How am I supposed to help her if I just now learned her real name?

Worst-case scenarios filled my head. She was being followed or mugged; she’d been sick—was it serious? My fingers opened and closed, trying to figure out what to do as I sprang to my feet.


Wes: Are you ok?

Wes: Are you hurt?



Emotion was rising in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. “Can you access a client’s address?”

“It’s against our privacy policy,” he hedged.

“Fuck the policy. She needs help. Can you access it? Her username is Bmoney34.”

“Yeah.” Cord slid into my chair, and his fingers flew over my keyboard, pulling up screens on our back end I’d never seen before. With three clicks and a stroke over the keyboard, he pointed to my phone, which buzzed. “Just sent it to you. Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

“I’ll let you know,” I said, already sprinting for the exit.

She didn’t live far from our office, maybe nine blocks. I ran, feet hitting the pavement hard as I flew out the front doors of our building.

I repeated the text in my mind, four letters pinging in my head. Help. I checked my phone, hoping to see the bouncing dots of a reply, but the ongoing silence ratcheted up my anxiety.

Her building looked like a hundred others in the city, and the main doors were locked. “Fuck!” I growled, pulling on them anyway. I was moments away from dialing 911, even though I had no idea what was going on or if she was even there.

An older couple approached the door cautiously, giving me a wide berth. “A resident has to let you in, son,” the man said.

“A friend is in trouble inside. She texted me ‘help’ but isn’t answering her phone. Britta Colby. She lives in 423D.”

The couple eyed me warily.

“Please,” I said, frantic. “My name is Wes Lawson, follow me if you want, I’ll give you my driver’s license or my wallet, please just let me in so I can help her.”

The woman touched her husband’s arm, reached into her purse, and pulled out a phone. She held it up, and the camera clicked. “Okay, Harold, let him in. I have his picture in case he’s some kind of sex pervert.”

Harold shuffled forward to punch in the door code. “We’ll be waiting in the lobby, okay, son?”

“Thanks,” I said as I ran inside. The elevator was paused on floor three, so I hurried toward the door marked for the stairs, taking the concrete steps two at a time. I didn’t have to go far when I stopped in my tracks.

On the third-floor landing, a motionless form lay crumpled, and I sprinted the rest of the way to her.

Her skin was clammy, but she was breathing and the pulse in her neck was steady. I touched the side of her face, where dark smudges settled under her eyes and her dark curls framed her face. Taking her palm in mine, I dialed 911, telling the dispatcher the address and where to find her in the stairwell.

“B, can you hear me? It’s Wes. Help is on the way.” I stroked the back of her hand, willing her to be okay. “Britta, can you hear me?” Saying her real name felt foreign, but I wanted to repeat it. “Britta?”

A crease formed between her eyes, and she squeezed my hand as I finished the call. “What . . . ?” She sounded dazed.

“Don’t move. I’m here, Britta. I’m here.” I brushed her hair away from her eyes. I’d been in her presence for less than two minutes, and I wanted nothing more than to touch her, pull her into my arms, or to carry her to the fucking hospital, but I settled for leaning close and trying to reassure her. “I think you fell, but I’m here, okay?”

“It’s you?”

“It’s me. Try not to move. What hurts?”

“Everything.” She closed her eyes again before her lashes fluttered open. “Tube Sock?”

I smiled at the damn nickname. “It’s me, Bubs.”

“You came,” she murmured. “I’m so sorry. I was going to ask you for help.”

“Of course I came.” I glanced at the concrete stairs above us and cringed. “Don’t apologize. You did ask me for help. Just try to stay still.”

Her chest rose and fell steadily, and my eyes stopped on her soft, full lips. When she met my gaze, her expression a mix of panic and pain, my heart lurched. I brushed my thumb gently down her cheek without thinking, and something like relief colored her expression at my touch.

“It’s you,” she murmured again, raising a hand to touch my forearm.