Prologue
James
The metal handrail is pitted and rough under my palm when I grab hold of it and pull myself up to the door with the worn sign that says “NO ACCESS.” It gives way with a sharp shoulder shove, and a warm wind plasters my T-shirt into my chest as I step out onto the roof and immediately stumble as something catches the edge of my sneaker. When I squint down, the asphalt is raised a little. A hiccupping laugh spills out of my mouth.
My cheeks sting as the sea air whips across from the bay, buffeting over the building and slapping into my face as I emerge from behind the raised stair bulkhead that stands like a box in the center of the roof.
The city lights are hazy, and I scowl. That’s not right—you don’t get a haze when the wind is blowing; I learned that at school. But they shimmer nonetheless, like the gauze of a woman’s dress, dusted with tiny sequins. And fuck, aren’t I being poetic tonight?
I lurch to the rail on the edge of the roof and spread my arms out into the gusting air. I could fly like a bird. Fly away forever.The metal is damp when I curl my fingers over it, and I wobble a bit as I place a sneaker on the lower rung: one leg over, then the other. Now I’m sitting on top of it, and I stretch my arms out again. It’s so hot and sweaty that the breeze lifting my T-shirt feels like bliss. I’m on top of the world.
“Woo-hoo!”
My hands snap back in to grasp the railing as I put both feet onto the ledge. Now I’m on the wrong side of the railing, or the right side, depending on which way you think about it. I huff at myself as I stare down at the traffic and the lights.Brighton Beach. Acid bubbles away in my stomach and up the back of my throat.
So far away.
Everything’s so small!
There are hundreds of people in the cars down there, going about their lives, worrying about what’s for dinner, the coworker they hate, and whether their husband or wife is cheating on them. Is someone going to see me land? Watch me thud onto the sidewalk and crumple, my torso caving in on itself?
I shudder as I stare up at the night sky. No stars. Must be all the clouds. Perhaps a late-summer thunderstorm is coming, but it’s too dark to see.
How many stories does this building have, anyway? Does it hurt when you hit the ground? Do you pass out on the way, or are you fully conscious when you land? I should have done more research. But who the fuck cares, right? I’ve drunk so much now I’m numb. My fingers catch against the rust of the railing. I ought to have worn gloves for this. I tip my head back and laugh, swaying. The ledge shifts beneath my feet and the drop yaws open below me. Fuck, I can’t go yet, I’m not ready. I grab on, feet scuffling against the stone.
Jesus, it’s fucking slippery up here.
Chapter 1
Sadie — Twelve Hours Earlier
The patterns in the Python code dance in front of my eyes as it scrolls up the screen. Red for stop, green for go. The truncated lines and semicolons are like a river running through a dark valley. Like dark magic or an ancient rune. Speaking of which, the new Brandon Sanderson is burning a hole in my backpack. I’m clock-watching today: I can’t wait to curl up and read the damn thing.
A shadow looms over my shoulder and I startle, looking up to findhimstaring down at me. Goddammit, how did he get over here so fast? He’s like a cat creeping up on a bird, or a crocodile lurking under the water. Normally, I’m better prepared when I’m this close to him; I have time to shore myself up. I stare up at him, swallowing: tall and lean, clear blue eyes and thick dark lashes behind tortoiseshell glasses. Smart chinos and a shirt. Been with his girlfriend for twelve years, or so Des said. I drop my eyes.
He’s been quiet—morose, I’d say—for the last two months, but I’ve only been at Williams Security for five months in total. Not what I was expecting from one of the two guys running this place, but who am I to judge? Quiet may as well be my middle name. And I might not be morose, but you wouldn’t call me happy-clappy either.
Des and James.Like a TV double act. Then there’s Jo, of course. She’s the head honcho who owns and oversees the business. I don’t have much to dowith her. Des makes up for James in spades. He’s a talker, he’s gay, and he comes out with the most inappropriate comments at the wrong time. I’d do the same if I ever opened my mouth, but it’s important to say nothing when you’re five months into a job you’re not qualified for. You have to fade into the background so everyone ignores you. People say all sorts of interesting things when they’ve forgotten you’re in the room, if you’re playing a game on your phone and they think you’re not paying attention.
“Hey, Sadie,” he says, and a tremor runs through my hand as I place it on the desk. “Everything going okay?”
I can’t look up again. I can’t even speak. I nod, eyes fixed on my screen. I’ve never understood how anyone can look a guy like James Royce in the face. He’s so good-looking, it’s like staring at the sun. My breath seeps out between my teeth. If I do it real slow, perhaps he won’t even notice.
I don’t often interact with him. I’m not even sure what he does. Des heads up the team. James does a lot of the firmware work and the engineering-y hardware stuff, or so I’m told.
“Des said that you were nearly finished on the code for the update.”
It’s due in two days. Everyone’s been running around like headless chickens, working late, though, the way things are at home, I can’t do much of that. I must be their least impressive employee. Well, at least I’m not Rodriguez; he kept criticizing how the company did everything and drove Des nuts. The final straw came when he put a hand up Amy’s skirt, claiming that her clothes were a “come-on,” and got fired.
James drags a chair from nearby and sits down next to me. My hands freeze on the keyboard, pale fingers and jaggedy nails resting on the keys. When I go to the park at lunchtime to eat the sandwich I bring in, I see Manhattan women out chatting in their tailored suits, with their polished nails and bags that cost more than my rent. I’ve never seen such perfect women in my life, never traveled much outside Queens before I got this job. James puts a hand on my desk, and his neat square nails drum a beat against the wood.
The tremor is still visible in my hands, so I lift them off the keyboard and fold them in my lap. Out of the corner of my eye, the muscles in his thigh shift as he straightens in his seat.
The girl’s code turns the boy toward her, and there are stars in his eyes.
“Why don’t you run me through where you’ve got to?” he says.
He smells vaguely like herbs and something else … aftershave? Fabric softener? I risk a quick peek at him. His blue eyes are patient but troubled.
