by Alyssa Cole
His gaze connects with mine, then he stands and runs out of the room. I hear the pounding of his footsteps and his heavy breathing through the phone. “He’s heading for the third floor. Hide somewhere, now. Now, Sydney! I’m coming for you.”
He hangs up.
I still don’t know if I can trust him, but I decide that at the very least, I will hide. I’m feeling mad petty, but I’m not gonna die just to spite Theo by ignoring his warning.
I close and lock my mother’s bedroom door. The fake Con Ed dude was big. He likely has something letting him bust through the locks on the outer apartment doors—maybe he even has the key.
What he doesn’t have, what none of these motherfuckers trying to take over my neighborhood have, is the knowledge of someone who grew up here. Someone who doesn’t see these houses as just a place to show off to their rich friends or post pictures of on Boomtown.
Wood cracks with a loud split in the living room—the outer apartment door, which confirms that Theo was telling at least a bit of truth: someone is trying to get me. I slide into the closet, close the door behind me, and turn the key that sits in the lock inside of it. The lock isn’t heavy duty, and was installed to keep visiting kids and nosy houseguests out of Mommy’s things when locked from the outside. Locking it from the inside was another “in case of emergency” bonus—the poor woman’s panic room.
I tuck the gun into the waistband of my pants, and do the thing I received my only ever spanking for; not because I’d done anything bad but because I’d scared the shit out of my mother by disappearing for hours.
I push through Mommy’s dresses and trousers, still hung neatly and carrying the scent of her, and unlatch the door in the wall at the back of the closet. It leads to the servants’ staircase, a feature built into many of these brownstones. For once, the excess of the rich people who lived here in the past comes in handy.
Thanks, Frederick Langston.
I step into darkness and close the secret door behind me.
The air is surprisingly cool, and what feels oddly like a breeze blows up toward me even though our steps don’t lead down to a cellar like many people’s do. After the initial jolt of fear at what might be lurking, I turn on my phone’s flashlight and start making my way down.
I try to walk quietly—these stairs are a hundred years old at least, and the last time they were maintained was when Mr. Perkins made a bunch of repairs after I got stuck in here that one time. Twenty-five years ago?
After the first few steps don’t break beneath my weight and an army of rats doesn’t swarm up the passageway toward me, I gain a bit of confidence.
I start to move faster, the darkness crowding down the stairs and up behind me, where the weak phone light doesn’t reach.
A spiderweb clings to my arm and I shudder, but when I hear crashing upstairs, in the bedroom, I could give a good goddamn about a spider or a creaking stair. I’m jogging now. One more short flight of steps and I’m into the coat closet on the first floor and out of this—
The sole of my boot comes down on something not soft, but not hard like a wooden step and not flat like one, either. I look down at the glow coming from the phone that’s suddenly illuminated under my shoe. At the familiar brown hand holding it tightly.
All I can see is this hand, the LED screen shining against the matte purple acrylics at its fingertips. The screen, now cracked, shows dozens of calls and messages, mostly from me. The battery power is a sliver too thin to be seen, but reads 1%.
“Drea,” I whisper, and even though I resolved not to cry and not to panic, that was before this horror lurking around the bend in the staircase. My sinuses burn and tears well up. “Fuck, Drea. Why?”
I can’t bring myself to look at her face yet, and though some part of me knows I need to move past her or die, my ass drops down to the steps and I tug the phone from her hands, wincing when she seems to hold on to it. We played like that sometimes, me tugging to see what wild text she’d just received, but this isn’t a game.
It’s rigor mortis.
I put in her unlock code and our text chat opens on the screen. I finally see the last thing she’d been typing. The unsent message that has been haunting me for days.
Luv u. Im sorrrrrrtttyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.
The phone shuts off, and I sit unmoving and unbreathing as the darkness blankets on us both.
Chapter 20
Theo
I HAVE A CERAMIC KNIFE FROM CRATE AND BARREL IN ONE hand and a ridiculously tiny crowbar shoved in my back pocket as I jog across the street—Kim’s vast array of power tools are suddenly put away somewhere instead of lying all over the place and tripping me up. Maybe she thought I would sell them, or more nefariously, maybe she didn’t want me to have anything to defend myself with.
Kim, the woman I thought I could pin my future to.
Kim, who had texted something that made Sydney flee in terror.
Kim, whose father’s name had come up as a VerenTech Pharma shareholder as well as a lawyer for BVT Realty as I’d waited for the water to boil, as Sydney had freaked out and run away.
The iPad is in my other hand, but I haven’t read the messages because I have to go fight a man who’s likely a trained killer with the assistance of a kitchen knife.
Not being able to call the police when you need help really sucks, I’m learning.
I stalk to the house, aware that eyes are on me, tracking me from windows I used to peep into from my own and from the cameras that have popped up on several of the houses. A shadow is silhouetted by the warm lamplight in Melissa’s apartment. The curtains flutter in Josie and Terry’s living room, and Toby barks.
When I get to Sydney’s top step, I push the door open—the wood is splintered around the lock as if someone has forced their way in with a much bigger crowbar than the one I’m packing. I peer into the dark hallway, but can’t see much since dusk has mostly fallen and the place is filled with shadows. My eyes start to adjust, and that’s how I see the wall swing open. That’s how I see a darker shadow slip out.
Sydney.
The iPad pings suddenly, the screen going bright and illuminating me as I instinctively turn it to read the message that’s come in. Sydney’s head whips my way as my eyes skim over the messages, the latest of which is Did you get rid of the skank?
An earlier response from whoever Sydney assumed was me has a knife emoji aimed at a Black woman.
I am holding a knife. Sydney is a Black woman.
Correction: Sydney is an armed Black woman.
“This looks really bad,” I say, holding up the knife and the iPad as she points a gun at me. “I really wish I’d read this beforehand. I would have carried the shovel over instead.”
Her gaze is empty, her expression blank, but her whole body is shaking. “Drop it.”
I put the knife down.
“Okay, let’s get out of here,” I say. “You have the gun, you have the power, we can figure this out once we’re outside.”
Tears spill from her eyes and her expression crumples and then smooths as she battles to keep her composure.
“Did you know about Drea all this time?” She sucks in a breath, and turns the gun from side to side but with the muzzle always pointed at me. “While I worried and checked my phone? While I was pissed off at her for taking their money? Did you know she died like a rat in the wall?”
Her voice fades into a broken, wounded wail, and I understand that something horrifying has happened in the few moments since I talked to her on the phone.
A second shadow moves against the wall near the top of the stairs—someone walking slowly along the second floor landing.
“We need to get out of here,” I press. “Remember? The man who—”
“Did. You. Know?” Her eyes are wild, and I don’t think she even remembers that someone is trying to kill her, or if she does, she’s stopped caring.
“I didn’t,” I say gently. “I’m sorry, but—”
I reflexively chuck the iPad as h
ard as I can as the shadow takes solid, bulky form at the top of the staircase. I’m sure it doesn’t hurt much as it smacks into the man, but it does the job of knocking him off balance—a bullet bites into the wall to the right of Sydney’s head.
He’s got a gun. With a silencer.
“Motherfucker,” she growls, turning and popping three shots off at him. She isn’t using a silencer, and the sound echoes loudly in the hallway.
The intruder twists and tries to dodge, but the motion paired with at least one bullet hitting him sends him sliding down the steps. I snatch up the knife and run to meet him as he reaches the bottom.
He tumbles ass over feet when he hits the bottom landing, and I jump onto him before he can get his bearings. I straddle his chest with enough force to crush his solar plexus between the steps and my body weight, knocking the wind out of him. His muscles tense beneath me as he pulls against something; his gun hand is between the poles of the banister and in my peripheral vision I see Sydney trying to tug it from his grip.
Shit. One wrong move and he might—
No. She smashes a booted foot into his elbow and I hear him hiss, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the ground.
I bring a fist down on his nose and then his windpipe with one hand before plunging the knife into his side with the other. It goes in smoothly, gives barely any resistance as I twist, and I finally understand why Kim paid so much for this thing.
He cries out, and tries to throw me off, but I press down with all my weight, jabbing the knife with one hand and punching him in the side of the head with the other, again and again, until he stops resisting and goes limp beneath me.
The light switches on and I blink back over my shoulder at Sydney. My left hand is wet and stained red, and I use the bottom of the guy’s black T-shirt to wipe it off. The iron-rich scent of blood, like a butcher shop, and shit fills my nose and I try not to gag.
The face of the man who tried to kill Sydney is bloody and swollen, but I can see that he looks a little like me: tall, burly, light brown hair. Kim has a type. He shakes a little, and writhes as I take his cell phone and hold his thumb to the home button. When it unlocks, I get up, not looking at him again.
After quickly changing the password so I don’t have to worry about it automatically locking me out, I pick up his gun, walk over to Sydney, and open his texts.
I knew things were over, but seeing a nude of your recent ex sandwiched between requests to kill the woman you currently have . . . something with is just a bit of a mindfuck.
Did you get rid of the skank?
I reply with , and then in a second reply, .
And my loser ex? pops up.
Ouch.
I send a and a , this time following it up with a , then screenshot the conversation.
Sydney’s hand grips my arm. “He was honeycheeks?”
“I think,” I say. My heart is racing and I feel kind of like I’m gonna puke, but it passes. “Kim is supposed to be in the Hamptons. That picture isn’t her parents’ place, though. I don’t know why she’s involved in this. I don’t know what she has to do with hired killers. Fuck!”
The anger I felt when the man took a shot at Sydney isn’t going away, isn’t fading as I come down from the high of the fight. He lets out a rattling breath and I want to walk over and kick him in the head, stomp him . . .
No.
“What happened to Drea?” I ask Sydney, remembering her defiant hope in her friend and the emptiness in her eyes when she stepped out in front of me.
Sydney’s eyes fill with tears, and I slide my free arm, with the gun in my hand, over her shoulder and pull her into my side. She points toward the door through which she seemingly magically appeared in the hallway.
“Even if she did betray us, I never wanted this. Ever. I couldn’t tell what they did to her. I think she tried to escape through the old servants’ staircase. I don’t know why, even though I was—”
She raises a fist to her mouth and I feel the dry heaves rack her body.
I can’t tell her everything will be all right anymore. I hold her more tightly, my thoughts going a mile a minute as I try to figure out how we get out of this. There are at least two bodies in this house, one of which we’re responsible for and the other of which could easily be pinned on us.
Her best friend is dead. There’s a man bleeding out on the floor—a man my ex sent to kill her.
An OurHood chat notification pops up on the screen. I tap into the account and see that the notification is coming not from the main Gifford Place hub, but from a conversation under the heading PRIVATE GROUPS. There are two groups, Marketplace and Rejuvenation Planning, but only the second is highlighted.
Gifford Place OurHood/privateusergroup/Rejuvenation
Kim DeVries: Dad, I told you I would handle it. They’re dead. So is her friend who got the photocopies. So is the guy who snuck them to her. This loose end is tied off.
Mikel DeVries: Are you sure? The last thing we need is this popping up in the news. Everyone else will be handled but she was the only one who stuck her nose where it didn’t belong. Make sure her house, emails, social media, and close friends are cleared too.
Kim DeVries: It will be taken care of.
Josie Ulnar: Do you know how many stories are reported each day that should have people burning this country down? Dozens. A few people get mad on social media. Every once in a while, some poor sap goes to prison for a few years to satiate the plebes. To be frank, if we pull off tonight’s rejuvenation with minor complications, it doesn’t matter who finds out.
Josie Ulnar: As I tell Arwin, we are the sticks and stones, and we are the words. No one can hurt *us*, especially not social media stories, which have the life cycle of a fruit fly. Let’s just get this done.
Terry Ulnar: Yes. We have contacts in most major newsrooms, and there is always a more titillating spin on the story. With the parade and parties this weekend, there will doubtless be a shooting or molestation for them to focus on. If not, we’ll make one happen.
Kim DeVries: Besides, what can they do, call the police? lmao Let’s just get ready for the meeting tonight. After the rejuvenation, the next phase is going to move fast and we have to get our press releases, contracts, and containment services lined up.
Sydney is reading over my shoulder and I’m pretty sure both of us are too shaken up to really process everything that’s happening.
“What is a rejuvenation?” Sydney asks. “They keep mentioning it.”
I scroll through the group conversation but see nothing else that makes sense to me.
“Can’t find anything,” I say. I click to the other private group and see a post asking if there are any houses available with central air-conditioning. It seems to just be a real estate listings page. “There are posts in the other private group, but we need to get out of here. They might figure out this guy didn’t finish the job soon.”
She nods, then continues to nod as if running through things in her head. “They’re gonna do something big tonight, something worse than what they’re already doing. That’s all we need to know.”
I check the gun to reacquaint myself with the feel of one and make sure there are no tricks to it. It’s a simple Glock, older model with a silencer screwed on. Sydney checks her revolver, too, loading bullets into the chamber to replace the ones currently lodged in her hallway and in the body of the man on the floor.
“Sydney? Sydney?” Someone is calling her from outside.
“Let’s go,” I say.
When we step through the front door, there are people gathered in the street and more arriving, the glow of the streetlights silhouetting them.
Of course they’re out there.
This is a neighborhood where people care about each other, and three gunshots went off in Sydney’s house.
Ms. Candace is front and center, hands resting on the head of her cane. “Sydney, what was that noise? Is that blood all over you? What in the—”
Her
words drop off as the streetlights and every other light on the block blink out, leaving us in darkness.
Chapter 21
Sydney
WE’VE HAD BLACKOUTS AND BROWNOUTS IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD since I’ve moved back—when the grid gets hot, we get shut down so the richer neighbors can stay cool. The fact that the electrical company feels comfortable admitting that seems sinister given everything else going on.
I can think of a million possibilities tying this coincidence to all of the fucked-up things that happened this week.
Maybe the other power outages had been conditioning. We’re used to this happening now. We’re not supposed to worry that the rest of Brooklyn is bright in the distance, not knowing or caring what goes on in the dark at Gifford Place.
This knowledge combines with the darkness and the humidity, pushing me down into the asphalt. My heart was already beating out of my chest and now I get goose bumps despite the heat because this blackout feels different.
Drea is dead. She’s never coming back.
Rejuvenation.
A man just tried to kill me in my own home.
Clear out.
My breathing starts to come fast and shallow, the pain in my chest a seed of anxiety ready to sprout and bind me, choke the breath from me.
No.
I have to keep it together.
An image of Drea’s last words, in text, pops into my head. I force it away. If I think too much I will die. That’s the bottom line here.
I take a deep breath. And another.
Breathe.
“Well, shit,” Ms. Candace says from somewhere next to me. “This ain’t good.”
A hand closes around my arm, and even though I’m ready to bash anything that touches me, Theo’s low voice follows immediately. He squeezes my arm twice and then his hand slides down to grip mine.
