“What’s that?” Declan asks, his attention on something else.
Then I hear it too. It sounds like something scratching at cardboard.
“Do you think it’s bugs? Or a rat?” I ask, because, honestly, a storage unit would be a likely place for them to hide.
“It sounds bigger,” Declan says, not taking his eyes off the passageway we came down. He moves in front of me, with his hand held back, as if to block me from going round him. This protective stance tells me he does not think it is any kind of vermin but rather something that could actually harm us.
“Are we in danger?” I whisper. I look behind me, even though we are at the back of the unit and the only thing next to us is a concrete wall. This narrow opening in the precariously heaped boxes looks smaller and smaller with each second.Is this what claustrophobia feels like?
“Shh,” Declan hisses at me.
I want to snap at him for dismissing my very plausible question, but I don’t get the chance. I inch forwards and – without meaning to – walk into his hand. His palm touches my stomach and stays there for a second. Two. Three.
“Sorry,” he whispers. “Stay behind me.” But he still hasn’t moved his hand. The tips of his fingers are pinpricks of heat against my shirt, matches about to ignite my body.
It’s just the closed space, his cologne, I tell myself.
His hand is gone and I take a half-step back. He’s been trained how to protect people; it’s not like hewantedto touch me.
My ears search for any sound to indicate what could be in here with us, what or who might be coming toward us.
All I hear is Declan’s breath. My own. His shoes scuff the concrete floor as he shuffles forwards.
That’s when the lights go out and I hear the roar of the front gate to the unit roll closed and clang shut.
22
DECLAN
“So,” Charlie says, sighing, “what are you going to do if we ever make it out of here?” Her voice finds me in the darkness. After the lights went out and the door locked closed, she let out a small scream. The complete darkness is unsettling. I’m doing box breaths to help. I guess Charlie copes with nervous humor.
“It’s been ten minutes, Ross,” I remind her.
We’ve each found an uncomfortable and cold seat on the cement floor while we wait. We’re locked in until help comes.
“No, this is supposed to be a life-affirming moment. Like ‘I thought I’d never escape and now I will donate all my possessions to an orphanage’,” she tells me. Even though I can’t see her, I can picture her arms gesturing wildly.
“When I get out of here, I’m going back to work. Then I’m going on a training ride. Same as I had planned earlier,” I tell her. My bike, the trail. Where I can trust that the bike is fit, the tires full, the gears clean. When I ride, the worries of work and life slip away. I pedal away from them, faster and faster until I’m flying. The thought of the open skyline puts me at ease in the dark, confined space.
“That’s right. You’re acyclist,” she says, a sarcastic bite to the last word.
Cyclists have a reputation for being . . . less than generous. Perhaps her applying this stereotype to me is apt? I wince thinking of how rude I have been. In the darkness, when no one else can see us or hear us, I find the courage to say something that has been on my mind. “I’m sorry,” I tell her.
I can’t see her reaction, but I bet those perfect eyebrows are creeping closer together.
“For how I treated you on your first day, your first week. I’m sorry.”
I hear Charlie moving and then see the blue glow of her phone. “Hold on, I’m going to record this as a voice memo,” she jokes. I guess that’s her way of accepting my apology.
“Well, keep recording because –” I pause and take a deep breath before I eat more humble pie – “you’re doing a great job. You have great instincts. For the job you were hired for and the other one you’re taking on. You pay attention to details. And I heard what you organized in Kalispell. For that runner.”
Charlie turns off her phone and we’re in the darkness again. “That was a team effort,” she says, brushing off my compliment.
“No, that was all you,” I remind her.
The darkness makes the silence stretch out longer.
“I guess I never said thank you for saving my life,” Charlie admits. “When the shooting happened, you protected me.” Her voice sounds smaller, even though she is still only a few feet away. “I guess we’re even now. Besides, I know you were trying to protect Oliver and the company. After you explained everything, I understand you were being cautious that first day.” We’re silent again for a beat before she continues. “And I appreciate your vote of confidence. I have always been the A player, the smartest in the room anywhere I went. Then I start at FIRE and I’m barely pulling a B minus.”
