Page 75 of Bitter Truth
Pausing on a narrow ledge, I blink back tears from the memory. Shake out my arms and take a couple of deep breaths. Then I continue to climb.
I don’t look up. I focus only on my next handhold, my next move, my next step. I can already feel the draft of the fan drying the perspiration on my face.
And then I’ve done it, found myself on top of the uppermost crate. There’s nowhere left to climb.
I lie on my back. Curl my knees to my chest. And kick.
The grate holding the fan in place gives on the first strike. Standing on my toes, I move it aside, then jump. Squirm as I struggle to lift myself through the square-shaped hole, worming my way inch by inch, the edge digging into my chest, then my ribs, then my stomach.
The sun beats down mercilessly as I flop on top of the flat, asphalted roof, panting. Sweat stings my eyes. The heat bakes my skin, wicking what little moisture I retain from my system. I’m out of the warehouse, but now I have a much bigger problem—getting off of it.
CHAPTER 39
There’s an old adage about jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. That’s exactly what this feels like—being roasted alive. I was already exhausted and dehydrated, but even if I wasn’t, it quickly becomes clear that I won’t last long up here. Already I feel the last of my strength being zapped away.
Rolling over, I push myself onto my hands and knees. The scorching roof makes my flesh feel like it’s melting as I crawl over to the side of the building.Awave of vertigo crashes against me as I look down, making me realize what a horrible idea this was as I feel myself sway, drifting precariously too far over the edge of the building.
Tossing myself back, I collapse onto my side. Squeeze my eyes shut against the dizziness making my head spin. But what I saw is still there, seared onto the backs of my lids. The two stories of metal that separate me from the ground below. But also…
I inch my hand forward, out into the open space.Stretching as far as I dare, I reach down, over the side of the roof. Slap around blindly until I feel it. A rain gutter is tucked around the ledge of the building. Which means there’s at least one downspout around here somewhere.
Keeping my hand on the gutter, I drag myself forward, reaching one corner, then a second, then a third. And there it is.
Lying on my belly, I lean over and look at it. It appears sturdy enough, but will it be able to take my weight? Even if it can, how am I going to climb down it? I’ve never been scared of heights before, but this is different.
This is—what do they make gutters out of, aluminum? So this would be me basically relying on a soda can to keep myself from crashing to the ground and certain death. My muscles are already fatigued. My grip is already weak. My hopes already dashed. But I wasn’t raised to give up.
Butch’s voice sounds inside my head, telling me exactly that. While Jake, even as a young child, always encouraged me to be cautious, my grandfather took a different approach.
“You never know if you don’t try.”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
“Never let fear stop you from spreading your wings, Cassidy. You were born to fly.”
Perhaps it wasn’t the soundest advice to give a kid like me, but it gave me the confidence I needed to believe that I could do the impossible. To get up, brush myself off, and try again after every failure, which, considering that those wings of mine have yet to keep me in the air despite all the times I’ve thrown myself into the void, attempting to soar, were many.
It’s never been more important to refuse to quit thanit is right now. And since Jake isn’t here to be my voice of reason, it’s time to channel that reckless, wild child I was raised to be.
I have everything to lose, but everything means nothing against what I stand to gain.
Pulling my shirt off, I thread it around the downspout and use the material to give a hard tug. It doesn’t move. Still on my stomach, I wrap the ends of the fabric around my hands. Then slowly, carefully, I swing my legs over the edge.
That initial moment when my feet are dangling out over space is terrifying. Sweat beads off my face onto the roof in giant splats as I scoot inch by inch until the edge is lodged painfully beneath my bottom rib. Squeezing my legs together, I hold the downspout in a death grip between my knees, take a deep breath, and drop one hand to the pipe.
The splinters embedded in my palms dig deeper as I scrabble for a hold. Black spots pop before my eyes. I’m trembling so hard I feel like I’m convulsing as I push my torso away from the building, knees leveraged against it, until my other hand has no choice but to join the first.
Somehow, I’ve managed to get on the downspout without falling. Clenching the ends of my shirt in an iron grip, I work my feet flat against the metal wall. Then slowly, step by step, I lower myself down.
I have no clue what I’m going to do once I reach the ground. Get in my car and look for help, but who do I call? The local police? They’d be able to respond the fastest, but can I trust them? What if they’re on Janine’s payroll? The Miami FBI field office? Garrett himself said he had agents who were friends. Director Jacobson? How long would it take her to send a response?
That’s time Jake might not have. Assuming that he’sstill alive.
As my feet hit against the crumbling asphalt, it’s not tears of relief that blur my vision, but of frustration. What if I’ve gone through all this for nothing?
But I can’t give up. I have to keep going.
I stagger toward the front of the building, pulling my shirt back on. Rounding the corner, I draw to a sudden halt.
