Chapter 11: The Service Stairwell Exit
The elevator chime in the private foyer downstairs rang out with a clear, metallic ping that cut through the silence of the suite like a scalpel. Julian's driver was early. He always arrived ten minutes ahead of schedule to check the perimeter, verify the luggage tags, and stand at attention by the double doors until Julian deigned to appear.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird beating its wings too fast to sustain. I stood in the center of the guest dressing room, the heavy silk of my blouse sticking to my skin where cold sweat had dried. On the coffee table lay the heavy brass-handled fireplace poker I had lifted from the hearth in the formal library three minutes ago. It was ornate, cold to the touch, and weighted enough to feel like a real weapon in my shaking hands.
Through the heavy oak double doors of the suite, I heard the muted rumble of voices—the driver conferring with security, checking the floor access log. They would clear the main corridor first, then sweep the master suite, and finally check the guest quarters before escorting us down to the private garage. I had perhaps ninety seconds before someone tried the handle of this door and found it unlocked, or worse, locked it from the outside.
I dropped to one knee by the heavy service door tucked into the corner of the dressing room—a seldom-used exit meant for housekeeping and valet service, usually kept bolted from the inside with a heavy brass latch. I jammed the tapered end of the fireplace poker into the narrow gap between the door and the wooden frame, right beside the mechanical tongue of the lock.
"Come on," I whispered, my voice a thin rasp in the quiet room.
I threw my entire weight against the poker, using the frame as a fulcrum. The old brass groaned, the metal protesting with a sharp, high-pitched squeal that sounded, in the echoing silence, like a gunshot. I paused, breathless, my ears straining for footsteps in the hallway. The voices outside continued, muffled and indifferent.
With a silent prayer, I planted my heel against the baseboard and heaved backward with every ounce of strength I had left. There was a sudden, violent crack of splintering pine and shearing metal. The brass latch tore free from the door frame, dangling by a single screw. The door swung inward, hitting the wall with a dull thud.
I didn't hesitate. I dropped the heavy poker onto the carpet, slipped through the narrow opening, and pulled the door shut behind me, wedging the splintered wood back into place so it looked undisturbed from the outside.
The service stairwell was dim, smelling of old concrete, bleach, and stale air. I kicked off my high heels, letting them clatter onto the landing, and began to run down the bare metal stairs in my stocking feet. The cold bit through the thin nylon, but I didn't care. Down and down I went, past floor six, past floor four, skipping landings two at a time, my breath coming in ragged, whistling gasps. My thighs burned, and the muscles in my back locked with tension, but the fear was a clean, sharp focus that kept me moving.
By the time I reached the sub-level exit leading to the underground parking garage, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely grip the push bar of the heavy fire door. I shoved it open an inch and peered out into the concrete cavern.
Under the harsh yellow glare of overhead fluorescent tubes, Julian’s black town car sat idling in its assigned stall, the driver leaning against the front fender, checking his watch. Beyond the car, near the delivery bay exit, a white van belonging to a commercial laundry service was backed up to the loading dock, its engine rumbling and its rear doors wide open. Two men in blue coveralls were rolling heavy carts of linens toward the bay.
This was the only chance I would ever get.
I stepped out from the stairwell into the open garage, keeping my head down, and walked directly toward the idling laundry van. My hair was coming loose from its pins, tumbling in damp dark strands around my face. As the driver of the van hopped back into the cab and slammed his door, I broke into a desperate trot, catching the edge of the passenger-side door just as he reached for the ignition.
The driver rolled down the window, staring at me with a mixture of annoyance and confusion. "Hey, lady, you can't be back here. Authorized personnel only."
I reached up, my trembling fingers fumbling with the clasp of the heavy diamond tennis bracelet Julian had forced me to wear to the gala the night before. I slid it over my wrist, held it out, and dropped it onto the sticky rubber floor mat of the van. The stones caught the dim yellow light, flashing a cold, expensive fire.
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"Take me across town," I said, my voice shaking but absolute. "Anywhere near Midtown. Just drive."
The driver looked down at the diamonds, then up at my pale face, the torn hem of my dress, and the utter lack of hesitation in my eyes. He didn't ask questions. He put the van in gear, stamped on the accelerator, and roared up the ramp into the cold Manhattan rain, leaving the subterranean garage—and Julian—far behind.
