I don’t go there. Instead, I slip around a bend and find another set of stairs, these narrower, steeper. I take these down. The noise is less, but the air is dead, no ventilation at all. Then I stop, listening. A cheer goes up from one of the bedrooms in the hall, a roar, and then a pounding, rhythmic, like someone’s trying to hammer their way through the floor.
I try the farthest door. It’s unlocked. Inside, the light is blue, the windows painted shut. I see two girls and a guy, all splayed out on a mattress, all high, probably rolling. The guy is shirtless, jaw grinding side to side. He sees me, tries to sit up, but then thinks better of it. The girls don’t notice me at all. One is whispering into the other’s mouth, like they’re trading secrets through a pneumatic tube.
I back out, close the door. This is what I’ve come to: peeping through rooms, looking for my stepdaughter like a detective in a bad crime novel.
Back on the second floor, I head past a couple making out so violently they’re headbutting with every kiss. The door at the end of the hall is cracked slightly open, and something within is glowing. What is that? An aquarium? I can smell weed and a weird chemical sweetness, see glowing fish swimming by. I’m about to ignore the situation when I hear the unmistakable whine of a girl in distress, and then, underneath, the voice of a boy:
“You’re safe. You just have to relax.”
What the fuck?
It’s Mary Kate. I know her voice, the way she moves, even when she’s off-balance. I know the way she resists, rough and panicked, telegraphing distress. I break into a run.
The hallway here is narrow. Plaster’s cracked, wires poking through. Every door is closed but one—at the end, where the shadows are headed. A big dude’s got her wrist locked in a grip. She’s trying to keep her feet, but her boots slip on the runner and she’s half-dragged, half-carried. Her free hand presses at his chest, a terrified little push, but he doesn’t even feel it.
As I get closer, I hear his voice. He’s talking low, persuasive, every word slow-walked through a smile: “It’s just molly, babe. You’ll love it. Just relax. I’ve done this a million times, I promise.” It’s so fucking practiced it’s almost boring.
Mary Kate doesn’t answer. Her lips are tight, a flat line, her face washed-out under the shitty light. She looks right at me, then through me, and for a second I think she’s gone—but then her eyes flare, blue and sharp, and I see the fear morph into something else. Anger, maybe. Or relief.
That’s when the boy turns, notices me. His eyes go from bored to pissed in half a second, and his hand clamps even tighter on her wrist. He squares up, blocking the hall.
“Hey man,” he says, “you lost?”
I close the space fast. “Let her go.”
He blinks, then laughs, then shakes his head. “Bro, it’s a party. We’re just having fun. Go back to your own girl.”
I don’t argue. I just step in and grab his shoulder, thumb digging into the meat of the deltoid, the other hand cinching the back of his neck. I twist, using leverage, not brute force, and he stumbles forward, his hand loosening from Mary Kate. She jerks free, stumbles, and lands hard against the wall, hitting her head slightly. She steadies herself, and I put my body between her and the boy.
He recovers faster than I expect, pivots, and tries to shove me. Big hands, but all show. I slip the push, clip him on the jaw, catch his wrist, and turn it back against his own chest. The move is clean, automatic. Medical training, plus a few years in high school wrestling. He gasps, more surprise than pain.
I lean in close, so only he can hear. “Walk away. Now.”
He tries to wrestle loose, but I’ve got the angle. I push a little harder, just enough to make him grunt. I can feel the adrenaline, the old animal joy of combat. It’s been years since I’ve let it out, but the body remembers.
I release him. He steps back, shakes out his arm, and eyes me with a flicker of calculation. Then he turns to Mary Kate, like she’s going to save him.
“She wanted it,” he whines, a child’s voice in a grown man’s mouth.
I don’t even dignify the comment. I look at Mary Kate, make sure she’s steady. Her lips are trembling, but she’s upright. The torn white tee is open at the collarbone, a faint red streak across her cheek where he must’ve grabbed her.
I reach for her, gentle now, and take her hand. She’s cold, fingers so rigid they could break. I pull her behind me and back out of the hallway, never taking my eyes off the boy.
The idiot’s still posturing, but he’s losing steam. There’s a trickle of blood on his wrist, from where my fingernail sliced him, and he’s staring at it like he can’t believe the body can be breached.
Down the stairs. Two at a time. Mary Kate is silent, but she never lets go. The main room is louder, the crowd thicker, but we move through it in a bubble of rage and fury and fear and whatever else it is that binds us together.
I don’t stop until we’re out the front door and into the cold, where the air cuts the noise off clean.
She stands on the porch, shivering, her breath painting clouds in the dark. Her skirt is twisted, boots flecked with something dark. Maybe blood, maybe beer.
I want to say something, but the words are all wrong. Instead I just put my coat over her shoulders, button it for her, and guide her down the stairs. She follows, stumbling a bit, still in shock.
On the street, a guy in a hoodie stares, phone halfway up, like he’s deciding whether to film us. I glare at him, and he puts it away. There’s an Uber idling at the curb, but I steer her past it,to where the Mercedes waits, black and shining, a wolf among mutts.
I help her in, make sure the seatbelt is on. Her hands are in her lap, clenched, the knuckles white and raw. She won’t look at me, just stares out the window, jaw locked tight.
I get in, start the car, and drive. The city glides past in a smear of sodium light and smeared snow. For ten blocks, we don’t say a thing.
