Page 82 of Dear Wife

Nobody’s going to help. This place is a revolving door of drug deals and armed robberies, of tussles in the parking lot and gunshots right outside my door. People stay inside for a reason, to get away from the discarded syringes and avoid stray bullets.

But you’ll think I’m counting on them to save me.

I reach the stairwell on the opposite end and fly up the stairs. The only way away from you is up. My only advantage, the element of surprise.

At the top of the stairwell, I scale the metal rungs on the wall to the door in the ceiling, a heavy metal plate that opens to the rooftop. It’s supposed to be locked, and it was, until I took the lug wrench I found in the trunk of the Buick to the rusted metal loop on the padlock. I give the door a shove, and I’m greeted with sunlight and a blast of heat. I hoist myself out, then flip the door shut, right as you come around the corner.

There’s nothing up here to weight the door down, no air-conditioning units or piles of junk I can haul over. No fire escapes or balconies I can lower myself onto, either, just a sudden, steep drop to the highway, three stories down. Nothing up here but bird shit and a giant billboard, looming above six lanes of traffic.

Whether I am ready for it or not, I am officially done running.

I hear you just below me, metallic dings as you scale the ladder. I edge around the door to the opposite side, step back so I’ll be out of sight. By the time you turn around and see me, it’ll be too late. I’ll already have a gun pointed at your head.

The door explodes, metal clanging against asphalt, sending up a puff of dust and dirt. Your hands clasp either side of the opening, pulling your body up with a lot less effort than it took me. You pop up like a spring, landing on the rooftop with both feet. You look around, realizing too late that I’m behind you.

I widen my stance and aim.

When you see the gun, you laugh. You actually laugh, and your eyes gleam in the sunshine. So does the blood on your face, streaming from your nose, leaving dark red trails down your shirt. You don’t look scared. You look entertained.

“This one’s loaded.” I jut my chin at the gun in your holster. “Put yours on the ground.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re not a good enough shot to use that thing. You’ll miss me by a mile.”

“I can hit you between the eyes, through the center of your heart or I can take out a kidney. Just tell me which one, left or right?”

You quirk your head at the confidence in my tone, but your cocky smile doesn’t fade.

“Put your weapon down,” I say again.

You don’t move. “You’re really starting to piss me off, Emma.”

My finger presses harder on the trigger. “You have exactly three seconds to unclip your gun and put it on the ground. One. Two—”

“Okay, fine.Fine.” You unclip the one in your holster and place it carefully on the ground. The Sig is next, the unloaded one you took from my waistband. You don’t try anything, don’t take your chance and shoot me, and that is another mistake. You think you’ll get another chance. You’re underestimating me still.

“The one at your ankle, too.”

You puff a laugh, then put that one down, too.

“Good. Now empty your pockets.”

“Come on, Em—”

“Empty them.”

With a theatrical sigh, you toss everything to the ground. Your wallet, a set of cuffs, your badge, some papers and loose change. When you’re done, you hold your hands high in the air, humoring me, but your expression is anything but humorous. “Happy now?”

Not even close. I point the Sig at your face and nudge you backward, putting some distance between you and the weapons. When I get close enough, I kick them away.

“So, what—you shoot me in the head and leave me for the rats? Take out my kneecaps then roll me over the side?” He glances behind him to the edge, some fifteen feet away and closing fast. “What’s the plan here?”

The plan is tonotdo any of those things.

You take another step back, then another. The look you give me is the same as always, firm and fierce, but the fire I saw in your eyes before is gone.

I’m in control now.

“How did you know?” I have to shout over the roar of the traffic below us. “About Sabine, I mean. How did you know she was the one helping me?”

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