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“She can’t,” Wendy says again. “She’s not even that good at stairs. She⁠—”

And I know there’s no question about whether or not the dog is coming. Everyone in this room knows the dog is coming, because we’ve all seen this kid nearly jump back into a burning building for this dog.

I look at the door.

“It’s locked,” Wendy says from behind me. “From the outside.”

“Shit,” I hear Tink whisper. “Who…”

I take a step closer, considering. It’s a nice door. Heavy, white, good hardware. Through the crack at the lintel, I can see the tiny bit of brass that must be keeping it closed. I try the doorknob just in case—no dice.

I square my shoulders and turn around.

Wendy and Tink are both staring at me.

“Window,” I tell them. “Both of you. Go. I’ll get Nana.”

Tink’s head comes around. “Pan.”

“What?” I shrug. “It’s a dog and some stairs.”

“And a broken fucking collarbone,” Tink says through gritted teeth. “You’re just going to ram through that?”

“No,” I say. “I was going to kick it down.”

“Pan—”

Too late. I square up, jog a step back, and fly at the thing boot-first.

Crack. I wince, mostly from the shock to my knee. Because the sound of the breaking latch isn’t even that loud.

And neither is the sound that follows.

It’s a chime. That’s all it is. Two soft notes, ding-dong, the kind of sound a nice, safe, rich person’s house makes to tell you a nice, safe door has been opened.

Every hair on my arms stands up.

I whirl around. “Alarm?”

Tink stares past me, at the door jamb.

“Door contact,” she breathes. “It’s on the inside doors. Pan, it’s on the inside⁠—”

Then the hallway light comes on, and someone fills the doorway.

Gray polo, slacks, and a face I clock about half a second before my body does something stupid.

Because I have seen this guy. I have seen him recently, standing up outside the club box level of a fucking dog track.

I wobble on my knee. Behind me, Wendy makes a hiccuping sound.

The guy doesn’t rush us, or even really acknowledge us much, just looks at Wendy, then reaches back and pulls the door wider.

“Boss!” he roars. “Boss⁠—”

Thud. The windowsill. I snap around, best as I can on my knee, and it’s Blue, through the window and across the room in three fucking steps, and no sooner does the heavy turn around than he’s out at the ankles, face in the pink carpet, arm folded up behind him at a wince-inducing angle.

“Fuck you.” Blue puts a knee between his shoulder blades and tightens his grip on his wrist. Then he looks up at me. No, at Tink. “This guy⁠—”