Riley.
Please tell me you did as you were told.
RILEY
I driftin and out of sleep until my cell phone rings.
The clock reads 6:30 a.m. Too early for Ciro to be calling in a panic. My grandparents and friends are asleep. Aren’t telemarketers prohibited from making calls this early?
Fear has me scrambling for my purse. If this is some sort of family emergency … My hand shakes as I dig it out and then answer it before the fourth ring. “Hello?”
“Listen carefully,” a harsh voice says. “Exit your apartment using the fire escape. Leave now, or you’ll die.”
Disconnect.
I stare at my phone, dumbfounded.
A prank call—it has to be.
Still … something in the stranger’s tone … an urgency … has me moving.
I grab my robe and purse, then climb out onto the fire escape. If I had neighbors, I’d be quite the sight, naked with wild hair and puffy eyes, outside their windows as I clamber down the steel steps.
For a brief second, I contemplate pausing to slip on the robe. This must be a prank, the telephone version of Ding-Dong Ditch. Besides Emily, Ciro, and Albert/Alex/Allen, and my weekly phone call to my grandparents, I haven’t spoken to anyone else, not since my father’s death. How would this man even get my number? Why would he warn me?
Al was scrolling through my phone earlier. But that wasn’t his voice warning me to flee. Besides, he walked out on me nearly twenty minutes ago. And I don’t believe I’ll ever hear his voice again.
Loud pops fill the air.
Gunfire. A barrage of bullets, coming from the street in front of my building.
Oh, sweet heaven. What’s happening?
Now I’m moving. My hands and feet slip and slide on the steel as I descend the last few steps, only to reach a landing stretching out over the building’s grassy backyard.
I consider the drop, and how I could sprain an ankle or break a leg if I land awkwardly.
This is New York City, where big-city violence happens. The street violence and strange phone call are likely a coincidence. And given the gunshots, it’d be safer inside. With the new lock, anyone trying to enter would have to bust down the door.
But what if you’re wrong?
A quick plan forms. Once in the yard below, I’ll slip on my robe, call the police, and wait hidden in the backyard while the violence unfolding out front is resolved. When it’s safe, I’ll walk around to the front entryway. Type in the code and use my apartment key to reenter my apartment. Then, I’ll laugh about flashing booby at my nonexistent neighbors and panicking over something just as ridiculous as a Gucci bag.
I release my purse, and it falls to the ground. Fingers wrapped around the lowest rung, I stretch my body and dangle my legs. Then, I let go, dropping like a sack of potatoes, hit the ground, and then tumble onto my buttocks so hard, the wind’s knocked out of me.
I’m sprawled on the grass and peering up at the sky when it happens. A loud, earth-shattering boom. The ground shakes. Bricks fall. Within seconds, flames shoot out of a window overhead.
Wait.
No. No. NO.
Not any window: the apartment window directly below my own.
CHAPTER 3
SANDRO
My first thoughtswhen I gain consciousness are of her.
