Page 42 of Bitter Lies

The door is still cool to the touch, so I open it and crouch low. Holding a wet towel in both hands, I crawl through the penthouse, making my way to my grandmother’s room.

For as long as I can remember, my grandparents have slept in separate rooms. When I was little, I asked her why, and she told me it was because they kept different hours. She needed her beauty sleep, and my grandfather’s odd schedule disrupted that.

I didn’t mind. It allowed us to have sleepovers when she was up for it.

As I approach, the sight of her open door triggers a warning in my mind. Grams never leaves her door open. Even when she’s away, it’s always closed.

“Grams!” I shout, coughing as I crawl through the doorway. “Grams! Answer me!”

Standing, I shut the door to prevent any more smoke from entering. Then cross her room to the window and open it, hoping to clear the room. It helps. Enough for me to notice she’s missing.

Her bed hasn’t even been slept in. Which is odd, because when I left her last night, she kissed my cheek and told me she was tired as she tugged the covers down.

They’re exactly as I remember them.

“Shit.” I close the window, not wanting to feed the fire with fresh air. “Where are you, Grams?”

After checking her door is cool, I open it and drop low, crawling again. There’s only one other room I can think of where she might be. If she’s not there, then I’m not sure it’s wise for me to keep searching. With the smoke getting thicker, I’m struggling to breathe.

The gallery door is cracked, sending my heart rate to unsafe levels. It’s always locked down, even when someone is inside. A self-closing system keeps it sealed to protect the art. Climate-control. Firewalls. Everything designed to keep what’s inside safe.

The pieces are irreplaceable. Worth millions.

This is a red flag. A blatant warning, screaming that something is wrong.

Unease builds as I crawl faster. The closer I get, the harder it is to keep control. Panic takes over, and I push myself to move.

My grandmother’s small foot is wedged in the door, preventing it from closing. I know it’s hers by the tattoo on her ankle of a paintbrush, with droplets of paint trailing downward. She’s had it for so long it’s become distorted.

An eyesore, according to my grandfather. He’s tried to convince her to get it removed, but she refuses. Insists it reminds her of her youth.

Shoving the door open further, I slip past. The room’s full of smoke.

If I close the door, it should clear faster. The air in this room comes from a separate source, independent of the penthouse. A common feature in safe rooms. It serves a dual purpose here. Protects the art and prevents an intruder from sabotaging the room or anyone inside.

Once I’m in, my first task is to free Gram’s foot from the door. When it clicks shut, I realize my mistake.

The room isn’t clearing. It’s filling faster, and I’m coughing more.

That means the fire’s in this ventilation system, not the penthouse. And judging by the smoke, I have only seconds before this turns critical.

Reopening the door is slower than it ought to be, slowed down by my continuous coughing. Now that it’s open, I need to think.

The door is heavy, and I can’t drag my grandmother out of here while holding it open. I need to prop it open with something, but what?

There are only a few things available that will work. Most of the items inside are too heavy for me to move by myself. So, I settle on a bench.

After jamming a towel in the doorjamb to keep it from closing again, I drag one of the heavy benches across the tile floor.

Once I’m closer, it takes some maneuvering, but I use my bum to nudge the bench into place, catching the edge and forcing it to stay open.

Now that it’s in place, I grab my grandmother’s feet and drag her out of the gallery and into the corridor. Thankfully, she’s small. Even lifeless, she’s lighter than I expected, making her easy to move.

I’m exhausted.

But I need the door closed. Fast. I’m hoping that once I do, the smoke will thin and make it easier to breathe.

Straining, I manage to move the bench inside, ensuring it no longer blocks the door. The second it’s free, I step back and lean against the wall as it slams shut; the sound echoing through the hall.