“Keep an eye on Miss Madison,” Harold calls out as Beckett steps inside.
“I’ve got her.”
I’m not looking at him, but I can feel him filling the space. I crack one eye open to confirm my floor is lit, then squeeze it shut again.
I can do this.
“Deep breaths,” I whisper, mostly to convince my lungs they still work.
Beckett stays silent, which is worse. Silence gives my brain room to wander, and my brain is currently a very bad neighborhood.
It’ll be over soon. Today can’t get any—
The thought is cut off by a violent jerk. The elevator stutters, a mechanical groan vibrating through the floor, and then nothing. The lights flicker before plunging us into absolute, suffocating darkness.
The hum beneath my feet dies. The air turns stagnant.
My heart slams against my ribs, hard enough tobruise.
No. No, no, no.
I suck in a breath that stops at my collarbone. I can’t breathe. Not here. Not again.
The smell hits me. Hospital disinfectant. Cold plastic chairs. The low, electric drone of a vending machine.
I’m seven years old, and my dad’s hand is a vice around mine. He’s telling me it’ll be fine, but his voice is shaking. Men in uniforms brought my mom in earlier. Her eyes were too bright. She was talking too much, and then she wasn’t talking at all. No one explained anything properly.
I went to the vending machine because Mom loved chocolate, and chocolate would help, but when I turned around, the hallway was a labyrinth of white linoleum, and I couldn’t find my dad.
Maybe they’re on another floor.Maybe I’m lost.
I remember pressing the elevator button with trembling fingers and stepping inside alone.
What if I go to the wrong floor? What if I never find them? What if the doors never open?
You’re a big girl, Madi. You can do it.
But halfway down, the world stopped moving.
I remember screaming for my dad. For my mom most of all. I remember covering my ears because my own sobbing was too loud. I remember thinking I was never getting out.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, the memory fracturing into the present. “Oh my God.”
“Madison.” His voice cuts through the static like a blade. “Look at me.”
My brain is spiraling, but the sheer authority in his tone forces a pause.
“You need to breathe,” Beckett says, closer now. “You’re having a panic attack.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, because that is my default setting even when I’m dying.
“Bullshit,” he growls. I feel a firm, warm grip on my chin, tilting my face up. “Take a deep breath for me.”
I shake my head, the movement jerky. “I can’t. I need to get out. Get me out.”
His phone flashlight clicks on, carving his silhouette out of the dark—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, eyes that are locked onto mine. He looks at me like a patient about to bolt, and he’s clearly decided he isn’t going to let me.
“The power is out. It’ll be back on. You’re safe.”
