Chapter 17

A little while ago, one of my coworkers joked that I should make ‘Productivity’ my middle name. I think he meant it in a passive aggressive way since I had pulled a near all-nighter to learn everything I could about a particularly juicy new case and got it instead of him. The truth is, I think it was the best compliment I ever received.

Except, much to my personal shame, I’ve been the opposite of productive tonight. I’ve done nothing to live up to my snarkily bestowed middle name.

I watch the clock, the traitor plodding steadily forward as it approaches midnight. I’ve done nothing since I got back and had a late dinner aside from spiral about what it is I’m going to do when I see Grant again tonight now, knowing what I know.

I’ve come to exactly zero conclusions. Zero conclusions except for the fact that I’m screwed. There’s no ghosting the guy who saves your life.

The seconds’ hand limps the final couple steps to the finish line just as my stomach dips. It’s that feeling of a trust fall right before you’re caught, of the first time you jump off the high dive, of the second plunge on a bungee jump.

Then, it’s the cold rush of water over you in a deep, spring lake. I shiver and open my eyes. I’m back in my office with my watch reading 12:00.

As soon as I get control over my jellied legs, I race off to the file room. I bump into shelves, knocking off boxes in my haste, but I don’t care. I reach into the cabinet and lift out Zagreus Hart’s files, shoving them in my shoulder bag easily. Thank goodness there’s ample room in there right now since I don’t have my umbrella. Usually it’s packed Tetris-ly tight. I don’t dwell on the thought because I’m off running again.

Panting, I glance at my watch as I reach the emergency stairwell: 12:06. I should have fifteen minutes to make it down the thirty flights of stairs. That should be plenty.

Hopefully.

I actually have no idea.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. History is made by strong women—women who are willing to do whatever it takes.

Unfortunately for me, everything becomes infinitely harder under stress. My hand slips on the knob several times and the door sticks impossibly until I realize I’m pulling when I should be pushing. My shoulder bag gets caught in the door. I look again at my watch: 12:07. Then it turns over into 12:08.

I don’t know if this is part of the danger or the time loop, but time seems to be racing along at an impossible speed. I finally get my bag out of the door and take off running down the steps. As I fly down the steps, I get caught between wanting to be careful and wanting to go quickly. I wind up doing neither. I go to skip an extra step but think better of it. Instead, I go awkwardly down one and a half steps, turning my ankle as I land both before and after my body thinks it should.

Before I’ve even gone down half a flight of stairs, my leg crumples under me and I tumble down the rest of the concrete steps. I lose all concept of what’s hitting where. All I know is that my eyes are pinched closed and I feel concrete, although not pain, all over my entire body. When I hit the concrete wall where the staircase turns, I couldn’t begin to guess what part of me made the contact.

I do know that I pick my body off the ground on all fours, feeling beaten like a battered leaf in a windstorm. My arms and legs shake as I try and fail to stand. Every part of me hurts with non-descript pain. It vibrates through me in shooting waves of adrenaline that only hint of the future agony they’re tamping down.

I try again to lift myself off the ground. And fail. Collapsed on the cold concrete, I think about how easy it would be to just stay here. To give up.

I might if I weren’t Hailey fucking Cox and if my watch wasn’t reading 12:14. Seven minutes to get out.

My raw soul screams out with an untapped strength and I take off running. This time, I shut my brain off and let my body move. My legs hurtle down the stairs at an impossible speed. I use that stubborn part of my brain to smother my instincts that try to slow me. I trust that my body knows what it’s doing and just go.

My feet scrape at the concrete in a poor pantomime of a run. My legs burn as I force them to move. Foot after foot. Faster and faster. Eventually, the pain dulls and my feet are able to clear the floor. I’m starting to fully run again. There’s a chance I can make it.

At least, that’s what I think until I feel the first rumble.

I look at my watch: 12:21. The split-second of distraction, along with the increasing shake of the building is enough to send me tumbling down the stairs again. Again, the motion of it all is lost, save for the sound that echoes in my ears as my head makes contact with something hard. It’s a sickening thunk that I feel down to the marrow of my bones.

This time when I hit the wall, I don’t get up. The first shake is over and the building holds its breath before its final descent. I know I have just a minute or two to get out. I know that it’s impossible. I still have several flights to go and I’m by no stretch of the imagination spry.

But goddammit it if I’m going down quitting.

Like a drunk, newborn horse, I stand on shaking legs and limp towards the next flight of stairs. I’m not even remotely surprised when I collapse and fall down the next flight of stairs as well. My body rag dolls down the steps as I lose the frantic adrenaline rush and get flooded with a sort of calm acceptance.

As I ricochet off the steps while the building gasps its last breath, the only feeling I feel is a dull surprise at the sound of screams echoing off the walls.

Funny. I don’t feel like I’m screaming. I just feel something akin to peace that I’m going out after giving it my all.

Besides, I always suspected that I’d die while at work. Statistically, it was just the most likely outcome.

Right before I’m crushed to death by the building coming down on my beaten body, it occurs to me that maybe expecting to die at work is a bit of a bleak thought. Maybe my life isn’t where it should be.

But then I’m dead and the thought doesn’t matter anymore.