Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(18)

My chest rises rapidly, and I count the number of times I slam my fist on her door. Fifteen. Calling her name.

She opens her entrance just as the annoying sound of smoke alarms pings around us, ratcheting up my anxiety level. Took them long enough!

“Thank God! Must be a fire! Smoke is coming from the vents and up the stairwell!” I take her arm, not mincing words. “Where’s Pookie?”

“What?” She looks disheveled, apparently asleep for hours, her robe askew, feet bare.

A rumbling, cranking sound reaches my ears just as water spouts from the sprinkler system in the ceiling. She had it installed years ago for the hallways. “Myrtle! It’s a fire! Get the dog!” I tell her, and she pales and weaves on her feet.

“Can’t be. Electrician said it was fine—”

I put my hands on her shoulders and lower my voice, infusing calm under the urgency. “Come on, Myrtle, sweetie. Where’s your dog?”

“In my bed.” She points back into the apartment as she steps out in the hall, looking around with wide eyes. She gasps as I leave her and fly inside, grabbing the lump of trembling brown fur off her comforter and stuffing him in my arms. On the way out, I snatch her purse and cane. She has the alarm system wired to 911. Fire trucks will come. I strain to hear them, but it’s only just gone off . . .

She scoops Pookie up and follows me at a slow pace that makes me want to scream. I hurry her along to the stairwell, giving orders as I help her the few paces down the stairs to the first level. “Walk slowly down the steps—yes, that’s good. One at a time. You’re doing great.” Horror hits. “The new guy!” If the fire’s in the basement, he’s getting the worst of it. “Don’t open any doors to the basement,” I tell her, thinking out loud. “Back draft.”

“What?” she yells, her face draining of more color.

For half a second, I think about explaining that a back draft can be caused by introducing oxygen to an oxygen-deprived fire zone; then the combustion would reignite, and the carbons and black smoke would explode and take down anything in their path. But there’s no time.

I take a deep breath, and it’s mostly clean. Must be calm for her. Reaching out with my palms, I don’t feel any heat on the last door and open it to a roll of smoke on the first floor. “Just go slow, okay, Myrtle—awesome, you got this. Shut the stairwell door—yes, good—now, let’s get you out the front door. I’ll get the new tenant, okay?”

She nods, clutching Pookie, her eyes wide as she coughs. Fear rising, I dash past her as she walks outside to safety. Just as I reach his door, the tenant opens it, cat in his hand. Thank God. “Fire,” I breathe, and he gives me a jerky nod and heads to the exit at the front of the building. Smoke tumbles thick and dark, and my eyes water as they dart to the basement door, hearing crackling sounds but no visible flames.

“Where are you going?” the man yells as I turn back to the stairwell.

I bite my lip, eyeing the smoke level in the stairwell. It’s not bad there, not thick yet, just tangling around my knees. There’s an escape ladder outside my kitchen if things get hairy—but they won’t.

“My nana’s pearls.” His mouth drops, and before he can yell at me, I take off in a sprint, legs pumping.

Once inside my place, I slam the door shut and tear the place apart, counting the seconds in my head. I reasoned on the way up and gave myself forty seconds to search. Less than a minute but doable and safe.

Ten seconds . . . no pearls on the coffee table or under the cushions.

Twenty . . . not in the kitchen, where I opened the wine.

I skid around the corner to the bedroom, eyes bouncing over textbooks on my desk, clothes on the bed. Nothing. Frustration washes over me, mixed heavily with fear.

Thirty . . . smoke dances around me as I hit the bathroom, kicking open the door, fumbling through lotions, perfumes, and makeup. After jerking out a washcloth, I use it to cover my mouth. It’s fine, it’s fine. I have good lungs. I’m a runner. Just . . . Nana. She died after Dad, and nothing was ever the same. And she wore them every day. She loved them; she touched them. I wasn’t her favorite—Elena was—but she did love me.

Forty . . . I jerk back from the room and run to the door and stare at the smoke rushing in like a tidal wave from underneath. My eyes water as I cough. Can’t go that way now. Don’t know what’s waiting for me. Could be flames. Could be smoke gets me before I get down the stairs. Nausea sits in my stomach like a thick wad of concrete.

Backpack in hand, I stride to the bedroom; snatch my laptop, phone, and purse; and shove them inside and run back to the kitchen, my frantic hand already working the window latch next to the small table. Off in the distance, I hear the blare of fire trucks, see the flash of red and white lights.

Rain drenches me, a bolt of lightning crossing the sky as I swing my legs over the ledge to the barely there balcony and stare down at the concrete below. Perfect, let’s add electricity to the mix while I get on a metal ladder. I look over the edge. Forty-five feet, I estimate in my head quickly. “Not afraid,” I mutter.

Water pelts me from the sky as I sling the backpack on my shoulders, then unhook and push the metal ladder, listening to it clatter down, screeching and groaning. It’s rusty, but I know it works. A girl like me has a plan. The day I moved in, I was checking the exits.