The door slides shut with ahiss.
In a trance, I stare wide-eyed at the panel on the wall. The numbers tick off as the elevator climbs. Not fast enough. Finally, I reach the top and spill into the hallway near the kitchen.
Instead of going back to the blue salon, I turn toward the front of the mansion, running down the hall until I know where I am. Another turn, and I see the foyer. A group of monsters stand in a cluster.
Ignoring them, I rush to the front doors, focused only on escape. Escape from the tunnels, from Ric, from this cruel world of wealth and its twisted rules.
“Brooke.”
Noah’s voice. But I don’t stop to answer.
I’m at the doors, fling one side open before I race into the night.
Noah calls my name again, but I keep going.
I don’t stop, I don’t slow down, and I don’t look back.
33
I’m sobbing by the time I reach the gate. Instead of going to my apartment, I run straight across the cobblestones, instinctively pulled to the nearest exit.
Gripping the black bars, I close my eyes and press my forehead to the cool metal. I open them again when I sense a presence, the alarming sound of someone behind me.
I whirl, my chest tight as it builds a scream.
But it’s only Noah, worry stamped into the lines of his face. “Brooke.” He says my name softly, like he’s speaking to a fawn who might bolt any second. “Are you okay?”
Collapsing against the gate, I cross my hands over my heart. “I . . . I thought you were him.”
Noah goes rigid. “Who?” His expression rolls from concern to fury. “Ric?”
“Yes.” I shake my head. “No. I don’t know.” I picture Ric, but his image blurs with another’s. A sob rises in my throat, but I trap it inside with a strangled sound.
My lips tremble, my tears stream, and I know I’m in the midst of a breakdown. One that won’t be stopped.
I tug at the fabric of my dress, then the red spider’s mark on my stomach, before hooking my fingers in the high collar.Suddenly suffocating, I pull and tug. “I have to get this off. I have to get this off.”
Is this a panic attack? The squeezing chest and shallow breaths?
“Okay.” Noah’s hands fall on top of mine, grip gently. “We’ll get you out of that dress. Come on. I’ve got you.”
Arm around my shoulders, he leads me toward his apartment instead of mine. I don’t object or refuse. Folded into Noah, I already feel safer.
And I can’t be alone in my apartment right now.
One bump or creak or flickering light might shove me right over the edge.
He guides me inside and to a downstairs bathroom. “I’ll be right back,” he says, holding up a hand in a halting motion, as if I’ll try to leave.
As if I could.
My whole body is shaking now. The adrenaline from before drains from my system, leaving me a cold and quivering mess.
Hands on the sink, I look in the mirror. And see a madwoman staring back. Hair disheveled, eyes wide.
The first thing I do is unhook the dress clasp at the base of my skull, then I pull the zipper down a few inches. The tiny relief lets me take a deep breath.
Next, I pull out the clip and shiny pins from my hair, rubbing my fingers on my scalp before splashing my face with cool water. I have a hand towel pressed to my cheeks when Noah returns.
