Page 97 of The Wife Upstairs
For us.
A thin, piercing alarm suddenly went off, startling both of us, and I dropped Jane’s wrist, looking up at the ceiling.
“What—” she started, but I already knew.
It was a fire alarm.
Without thinking, I ran for the stairs.
You idiot, you fucking idiot,I thought as I ran, because this was another thing that was like Eddie. The panic room didn’t open in case of fire because it was supposed to be a place you could go if therewasa fire. Either Eddie didn’t know that, or he was betting that I would come and let him out.
And I was pretty sure it was the latter.
Jane was right behind me, yelling my name.
Upstairs, the smell of smoke was strong, gray wisps already snaking out beneath the door of the closet, and when I grabbed the doorknob, it was hot. So hot it burned, my skin stinging.
I yanked the door open to a blast of heat and smoke and pain, and somewhere behind me, Jane started to scream.
PART XIII
JANE
37
I haven’t been in a hospital since I was fifteen, when I broke my elbow trying to impress a guy on a skateboard. I’d hated the experience then and it’s not my favorite now.
I’m supposed to go home tomorrow, but where home is, I have no idea. The house in Thornfield Estates is gone, burned to the ground, and the new life I had tried to build is gone with it.
It probably says something about me that this is the part I’m fixated on, not the part where the man I was engaged to had locked his wife in a panic room for months. Weirdly, in a way, that part of the story was almost a relief. Everything that hadn’t quite added up, everything that had triggered my fight-or-flight instincts made sense now. Everything was clear.
And I know that for the rest of my life, I’ll see the look on Bea’s face as she charged up the stairs to save Eddie. No matter what I felt for him, it was never that. Itnevercould’ve been that.
Just like Eddie never could have loved me like he clearly loved Bea.
When Bea had opened the panic room door, there’d been a whooshing sound, crackling, a blaze of heat that had sent me stumbling back, and instinct kicked in.
I ran.
Down the stairs, out the door, onto the lawn, falling into the grass, choking and gasping.
In the end, I’d done the thing I’d been doing all my life—I saved myself.
Which meant I’d left Bea and Eddie to die.
Sighing, I unwrap the Popsicle my nurse had sneaked me. Banana.
I’m lucky. Everyone says so. No burns, just smoke inhalation, which makes my throat and chest still ache, but given that the house is literally ashes, I got out pretty lightly, all things considered.
Except for the part where I’m homeless and adrift now.
I’m about to settle even deeper into self-pity when there’s a soft rapping at my door, and I turn to see Detective Laurent there.
“Knock-knock,” she says, and my heart leaps up into my throat, making me bite down on the Popsicle, the cold burning my teeth.
“Hi,” I say, awkward, and she gestures toward the plastic chair near my bed.
“Can we have a quick chat?”
