Page 45 of Shatter

I look back at him.

He's standing with his shoulders against the open door and the kitchen dark behind him, his hands hanging loose and empty at his sides.

He isn't reaching for anything.

He isn't reaching for me.

"I need to get up there." I point at the ceiling with my chin. "Third panel from the left."

It comes out before I can stop it.

He nods once, like I've given him directions to a gas station.

"Can I lift you?" He doesn't take a step. "Hands on your waist. Nowhere else."

My pulse kicks hard under the tape.

I nod.

He lets the door ease shut on its spring until it's almost closed, leaving an inch of kitchen light, and crosses the walk-in in two strides.

He stops behind me.

"Here." His hands come to rest on either side of my waist, over the hoodie, careful to stay below the tape. "On three. I've got you."

He counts under his breath.

Then he lifts me, smooth and easy, and my head rises up level with the ceiling.

His hands don't move or slide.

They hold me exactly where he said they would.

I press my good palm flat against the third panel and push.

It lifts with a scrape of dust and grit, and cold, stale air breathes down onto my face.

I reach into the dark.

My fingertips brush metal, a support beam, ridged and freezing.

Then tape.

Duct tape, stiff with cold.

I get my fingernails under the edge of it and peel, and it comes away with a long, sticky rasp.

Something small and hard drops into my palm.

A plastic sandwich bag.

Inside it, a black flash drive no bigger than my thumb.

I close my fist around it so tight the edges bite through the gauze.

"Got it." My voice shakes. "I've got it."

He lowers me down slowly until my feet touch the floor.