“Are you claustrophobic?” His voice was calm, not sarcastic. Concerned, perhaps.
“Not usually,” she said—voice thick with alarm. “But this... Stuck in a tiny metal box? It’s feeling… extra.”
“You’re going to be okay,” he said, not trying to downplay her fear. “Opening the doors manually depends on whether we’re at a floor. If not, the fail-safes won’t let anyone open them from inside.”
Terrific. So they were stuck somewhere between floors in a broken elevator suspended by god’s patience—and three steel cables.
David shifted, dropping to the floor with a relaxed grunt, leaning against the wall and stretching his long legs out. He balanced his tablet across his thighs, angled for comfort.
“Sit,” he said, patting the floor next to him. “Might as well be comfortable. You’ve got your phone, right? See if you can call Maintenance. Ask them to bring the override key. That will let them open the doors from outside, whether we’re at a floor or not.”
Doing something sounded ten times better than sitting still. Nodding, she slid down beside him, her skirt riding up her thighs slightly. The tile was cold and unyielding beneath her, but at least she didn’t feel like puking anymore.
She frowned at her phone, realizing she didn’t have the direct number for Maintenance. Instead, she called PBX. “Hey Nora, it’s Lena. Can you connect me to Maintenance? David and I are stuck in an elevator.”
“Oh, no! I’ll patch you through right away.” Hold music began, jazz with a kazoo solo. Groaning, Lena held the phone away.
“Seriously,” she nudged David. “You’re a tech god, and you’ve cursed us with this hold music? Can’t you put in something decent?”
He chuckled, the sound warm in this cold little space, and kept tapping at his tablet.
Voicemail. Lovely. “Andy, it’s Lena. David and I are stuck in the elevator—the north service one. The doors won’t open, and David is checking them electronically, but can you send someone up with an override key? Thanks!”
She disconnected, dropping the phone into her lap, pulse still thrumming too fast. “Voicemail. Please tell me you’re getting somewhere, because I really don’t want to die in a little box with a guy who lives for Clif bars and code.”
David looked up, light glinting off his glasses. “All the elevators are down,” he said. “Whole system’s offline. Andy will be helping guests first. It might be awhile.”
She didn’t want to cry. She really didn’t.
David shifted close enough that his shoulder pressed against hers. He didn’t say anything, just offered his presence, firm and steady, comforting. Tears pricked at the back of her lids—thankful ones, this time.
“I’ll get it resolved,” he added, voice soothing. “Hang in there for a few more minutes.”
She nodded and wrapped her arms around her knees, leaning forward until her head rested on them. It wasn’t comfortable—physically or emotionally—but she needed the fake shield of her own body around her fraying nerves.
“I’ll nap then,” she mumbled, “while you work your techie magic. Wake me when it’s over.” The words sounded dry but flat as she funneled every ounce of energy into not unraveling.
David nudged her shoulder again, this time playfully. “You do that,” he said, and then returned to tap away like there were no limits—as though getting her out of this perfectly mirrored, perfectly awful tomb was as simple as cracking code.
For him, it probably was.
She thumped her against her arms. “Have I mentioned how much I hate Mondays?”
Chapter 5
Flickering Shadows
David watchedLena from the corner of his eye, the glow of his screen casting a feeble blue light over the shadows clinging to the elevator walls. The metallic tang of stale air mixed with something else—the floral sweetness of her perfume, now barely detectable beneath the acrid scent of her fear.
She looked small, too small, folded up on the floor with her arms strangling her shins, her forehead resting on her knees. Her platinum hair hung down, shielding her face, a few silky strands clinging to her temple with sweat. From this angle, she looked less like the keen, sarcastic woman who ran the front desk like a battlefield with a smile, and more like the girl she must have once been. Alone. Scared of being forgotten.
Right now, her hands shook.
The tremors rippled through her fingers where they gripped her legs, visible despite the dim light. Each breath she took was shallow: measured in that brittle way that meant she was fighting to keep it under control. As if she let go for a second, the panic would swallow her whole.
Shit.
David’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as his lungs constricted with something uncomfortably close toprotectiveness. His fingers moved over the tablet, but his mind wouldn’t stay on the network diagrams and system diagnostics. It kept drifting to her—smart, fierce, snarky Lena Harris—reduced to muteness in a tiny metal tomb of flickering shadows and old air. He could almost feel the anxiety humming off her, hear it in the too-careful rhythm of her breathing.
