I stared at it, my brain catching up in stages.
“Thank God,” I breathed.
No animals. The thought registered with a flicker of gratitude—one less horror to find inside this place. But it was a fleeting mercy. My focus snapped back to the locked door, to Finn, to the seconds we were losing.
The door still had to open.
I tested the handle anyway, already knowing.
Locked. Solid. The frame looked original to the building, which meant old and sturdy, and the hinges sat on the inside where I couldn’t get to them. No glass panel to break, no obvious weakness to exploit without making the kind of noise that carried in the dead quiet surrounding us.
“Think, Libby,” I muttered, stepping back and running my eyes across the entire rear face of the building.
I moved along the side wall, scanning upward, and that’s when I saw it—a small window set high up, maybe eight feet off the ground, pushed open a few inches on its hinge. Just enough to let air move through. Just enough, possibly, for a person willing to be undignified about it.
I stopped walking and looked at it for a long moment.
“No way,” I said under my breath.
But there it sat. Open. Waiting. Completely indifferent to how impractical it was going to be.
I looked around the area for anything to stand on—a crate, a bin, a stack of pallets, anything.
Nothing. Naturally.
My eyes moved to the Suburban and then back to the window, and then to the Suburban again.
“That will work,” I said flatly, to no one.
I walked toward the vehicle, climbed in, started the engine, and inched the Suburban forward along the side of the building until the roof sat positioned roughly beneath the window. Close enough to matter.
I cut the engine, climbed out onto the hood—the metal flexing slightly under my weight with a sound I felt more than heard—and from there stepped up onto the roof, which dipped under me with a low metallic groan that made every hair on my arms stand up.
I went completely still and listened.
Nothing moved. Nothing responded to the sound. The evening continued its perfect, indifferent silence.
I reached for the window, fingertips brushing the bottom of the frame. Not enough purchase to be useful. I stretched further, rising onto my toes, the roof shifting beneath me.
“Come on—”
I jumped, caught the frame, and hauled myself upward. Muscles burned in my shoulders, elbows scraping the ledge until I had enough leverage to climb through.
Up close, the window was smaller and sharper than it had appeared from the ground. I twisted, forcing one shoulder through the gap, then the other, the frame pressing into my ribs. My hoodie snagged; I yanked hard, heard fabric tear, and kept moving.
“Do not get stuck,” I whispered with considerable feeling. “Don’t get stuck, don’t get stuck.”
I shoved forward. Gravity finally committed, and I dropped.
I hit the floor on the other side with a dull, graceless thud, rolling instinctively to land on my back in the dark, staring up at a ceiling I couldn’t see.
I lay still, listening with everything I had.
Dark. Quiet. The air carried the scent of antiseptic. No breathing but my own. No shuffling. No indication that anything in the building had registered my entrance.
I let out a long, shaky breath and pushed myself upright.
Something wound itself around my ankles.
