Page 134

I keep going, out of the kitchen, back into the hallway, where thin strands of smoke have started to make an appearance. Here the noise of the fire alarm is distant yet audible. A system separate from the rest of the building.
The sound fades slightly as I head down the hallway. At the other end is Nick’s study, the bookcase at the far wall still open. Beyond it is 12A. The study. Then the hallway. Then a way out.
Doors within doors within doors.
I stagger toward them, oblivious to the smoke, the pain, the exhaustion, the dizziness. My sole focus is the bookcase in the study. Reaching it. Passing through it. But as I approach the open bookcase, I feel a sudden heat at my back.
I whirl around to see Nick standing in a corner of the study.
In his hands is Ingrid’s gun.
He lifts it, aims it my way, and pulls the trigger.
I close my eyes, wince, try to spend my last second on earth thinking about my family and how much I miss them and how I hope there’s some way to see them in the afterlife. In that fraught, fearful darkness, I hear a metallic click.
Then another.
Then two more.
I open my eyes and see Nick continuing to pull the trigger of the unloaded gun. Like it’s a toy and he’s just a kid playing cowboy.
I don’t try to run. In my condition, I won’t get very far. All I can do is lean against the bookcase and contemplate Nick as he smiles, pleased with himself.
“Don’t worry, Jules,” he says. “I can’t shoot you. You’re too valuable.”
Nick takes several steps toward me, the gun now lowered.
“Over the years, my family has received a lot of money for people like you. It’s ironic, I know. That you, who’s so worthless on the outside, is worth so much on the inside. And that people who on the outside offer so much have inside of them things so useless that they must be replaced. You think that what we do here is murder.”
I glare at him. “Because it is.”
“No, I’m doing the world a service.”
Roughly ten feet separate us now. My grip tightens around the knife’s handle.
“Think about the people who come here,” Nick says. “Writers and artists, scientists and captains of industry. Think of all they give to the world. Now think of yourself, Jules. What are you? What do you offer? Nothing.”
He takes two more steps, closing the gap between us.
I lift the knife, barely aware of what I’m doing until it’s pressed against my neck. The blade’s edge creases the flesh beneath my chin. My pulse hammers against the steel.
“I’ll do it,” I warn Nick. “Then you’ll really be left with nothing.”
He calls my bluff.
“Go ahead,” he says with a blithe shrug. “There’ll be someone else to take your place. You’re not the only desperate person out there, Jules. There are thousands in need of shelter and money and hope. I’m sure we can find your replacement tomorrow, if need be. So go ahead. Slit your throat. It won’t stop us.”
He takes two more steps. One slow, the other a startling leap toward me.
I thrust the knife forward until it makes contact with Nick’s stomach.
There’s a pause. A breath of resistance as the blade runs up against flesh and muscle and internal organs. It passes in a flash and all that flesh, all those muscles, all those organs give way as the knife continues onward, sinking deeper into his stomach. So deep that my hand doesn’t stop moving until the edge of it is pressed against Nick’s shirt.
I gasp.
So does Nick.
The sounds are simultaneous. Two shocked, shuddering inhalations that fill the room.