“Irene,” she says. “You can call me Irene.”
That sounds wrong. But I can’t call her Nonna, no matter how much I’m thinking it.
We all have roles to play.
“Okay, Irene,” I say. “Here’s what we’re going todo—first, do you have anything to drink? I think the kid could use some water.”
Piper scowls. “I’m not a kid.”
The mundane request snaps Nonna into action. “Of course.” She bustles in the direction of the kitchen. I double-check the locks, then follow Piper into the living room. Resting atop the steamer trunk is an empty mug and a book of crosswords. Eames stands by the balcony door, his gaze hard on the outside world. I sink to the floor. Somehow it doesn’t feel right taking up space on the furniture.
Nonna returns carrying three mason jars full of water. Ice clinks against the glass as she sets them on coasters. “Thanks,” I say. “My boss should call me back soon.”
“Is there anything we should do until then?” asks Nonna. She sits on the love seat, adjusting the cushions in an absentminded manner. “Go warn the neighbors?”
I shake my head. “For now, it’s safest to stay here.”
In the meantime, I can try to figure out escape routes.
“Do you have a fire ladder?” I ask.
Nonna shakes her head. “Our fire-suppression system is supposed to be the best. We were told we didn’t need them.”
I glance up at the ceiling. Two sprinklers are visible—and they look a little rusty. “I don’t think a couple of sprinklers are state of the art.”
“Ihave the sprinklers,” says Nonna. “Because I refused the upgrade. The landlord tried to get me to take it, but I was here before they bought the building and my old lease was grandfathered into the contract.”
“What does everyone else have?” I ask, picking up a mason jar.
“Some kind of fancy carbon dioxide thing,” says Piper, speaking up. “The apartments have sensors, so they know when someone’s in their apartment, and then once people evacuate, they release the gas into the room. No oxygen, no fire.”
We all look at her.
“She also reads technical manuals,” says Eames. “Little weirdo. Won’t read classics but give her an air-conditioner repair manual or a serial killer biography and she’s set.”
“I’m not weird,” says Piper indignantly. “You’re weird.” She sticks her tongue out at Eames, who grins back at her.
A horrible, horrible thought occurs to me. I drop my mason jar against the steamer trunk with a thud.
“What?” asks Eames.
I swallow. “Hypothetically, if someone were to hack the mainframe—which they have—they could turn off some safety features. Like the ones that prevent all the air being purged from a room with people in it. And a hacker could fool the computer into thinking there’s a fire.”
Eames draws in a sharp breath.
Every single person trapped in their apartment could be asphyxiated with a few taps of a keyboard.
Hundreds of people.
Dead in moments.
The landline rings before the panic can truly take root. Grateful for the distraction, I pick up the phone.
“Augusta,” says Prefect. “Good, you haven’t done anything stupid yet.”
“We’ve got a problem,” I say.
“I’m sure,” he replies, “but mine’s more important.”
