Page 107 of The Cost of Silence

Rossi is already there, striding toward me from the far end, expression carved from stone. “Stairwell,” he says, taking my elbow, not roughly but firmly. “We’re going down. Now.”

“Nico…”

“Already knows,” he answers. “Elevators are locked in an alarm. We walk.”

The stairwell is chaos. Controlled chaos, but chaos all the same. Residents file down, some calm, some not. The wail of the alarms bounces off the concrete walls. My ribs clamp with every sharp breath.

Halfway down, the scent hits me.

That phantom smoke.

It’s not real. It’s in my head. I know it’s in my head.

My knees go weak anyway.

Rossi notices. Of course he does. He shifts, putting his broad body between me and the press of people behind us, taking some of the crush.

“Breathe, Isabella,” he says. His voice is steady, grounding. “In. Out. You’re all right. We’re just being cautious.”

“I know,” I rasp. “I know, I just…”

“You’re not alone. I’ll keep you safe.”

That almost breaks me.

We reach the lobby. Staff are herding people outside into the cold, clustering them behind the building while fire trucks pull up at the curb, lights flashing.

The blast of cool air hits my face, sharp and bracing. I wrap my arms around myself, shivering. People murmur, complain, speculate.

“Maybe someone burned their lunch.”

“I smelled nothing.”

“My oven isn’t even on.”

I scan the crowd automatically, looking for threats, for familiar faces. Nico isn’t here. Of course he isn’t. He’s at the office. But my idiot heart searches for him anyway.

Rossi stays close, a silent wall at my side, his gaze constantly sweeping the perimeter.

Ten minutes pass. Fifteen.

Firefighters go in and out, talking to building management. No smoke curls from anywhere. No dramatic flames. The alarm cuts off eventually, leaving a ringing silence.

“False alarm,” someone yells.

Relief ripples through the crowd.

False alarm, I echo in my head. Just a stupid, normal, mundane…

Rossi’s phone buzzes. He checks it, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly. “They’re clearing floors,” he says. “We’ll go up with them. Let the others go first.”

“Is it really nothing?” I ask.

His jaw works. “We’ll see.”

The ride back up in the service elevator is cramped, two firefighters, the building manager, Rossi, me. My fingers are cold around my phone. Nico has texted twice.

You outside?