Page 56

Something about this situation is very, very wrong. And I won’t know anything more than that until I locate Ingrid. The only thing I do know, made abundantly clear by that dispatcher, is that if I’m going to find Ingrid, I’ll have to do it all on my own.
20
Another night, another bad dream.
My family again. They’re still in Central Park, occupying Bow Bridge, all of them holding hands and smiling up at me.
This time, though, they’re on fire.
I’m once more perched on the roof, nestled inside one of George’s open wings. I watch the fire engulf each of them. First my father, then my mother, then Jane. The flames rise to a peak off the tops of their heads. The water below reflects their burning figures, turning three flames into six. When Jane waves to me with a fiery hand, her reflection follows suit.
“Be careful,” she calls out as smoke pours from her mouth.
It’s thick smoke. Black and roiling and so strong I can smell it from the Bartholomew’s roof. Below me, I hear the agitated shriek of a fire alarm echoing through the halls.
I look at George, his beaked face stoic as he stares at my burning parents. “Please don’t push me,” I say.
His beak doesn’t move when he answers.
“I won’t.”
Then he uses a stone wing to nudge me off the roof.
I wake with a jerk on the crimson sofa in the sitting room, the nightmare clinging to me like sweat. I can still smell the smoke andhear the blare of the fire alarm. It’s as if I’m not awake at all but simply caught in another, similar dream. The smoke tickles my nose and throat. I cough.
That’s when I understand what’s going on.
This isn’t a dream.
It’s really happening.
Something in the Bartholomew is on fire.
The smell of smoke drifts into the apartment. Out in the hallway, the fire alarm blares. Contained inside that incessant clanging is another sound—pounding.
Someone is at the door.
In between those rattling knocks comes Nick’s voice.
“Jules?” he shouts. “You in there? We need to get out of here!”
I fling open the door and see Nick standing there in a T-shirt, sweatpants, and flip-flops. His hair is mussed. His eyes are fearful.
“What’s going on?” I say.
“Fire. Not sure where.”
I yank my jacket from the coatrack and shove it on, even as Nick starts to pull me out of the apartment. I shut the door behind me because I read that’s what you’re supposed to do in the case of an apartment fire. Something to do with airflow.
Nick keeps pulling me along, into the hall, where a thin haze of smoke is made more pronounced by the bright strobe of the emergency lights on the wall. I cough twice. Two harsh barks that get lost in the sound of the fire alarm.
“Is there a fire escape?” I say, shouting so Nick can hear me.
“No,” Nick shouts back. “Just fire stairs at the back of the building.”
He pulls me past the elevator and interior staircase to an unmarked door at the far end of the hall. Nick gives the door a push, but it doesn’t open.
“Fuck,” he says. “I think it’s locked.”