Page 32 of Venus
And that scares me more than anything.
Chapter 17 | Vulcan
I’m halfway through a turkey sandwich and the fourth quarter of a Falcons game when the call comes through.
Terracotta Engine One respond. We’ve got a report of smoke from building B of the Briarview Apartments. No visible flames reported. Neighbors can hear a fire alarm from Unit 23.
I freeze.
Briarview.
That’s Venus’ apartment complex. If this town wasn’t so small, I don’t think I’d recognize the name. But it’s hers, so I do. The last bite of my sandwich turns to ash in my mouth as I stand, grab my gear, and head down to the engine, already roaring and ready to go.
I sneak a call to Venus on my cellphone, but she doesn’t answer, and I feel my hands begin to grow sweaty with panic.
Trevor shouts from the bay, “Let me guess. That’s the building with the Nurse Hottie you keep pretendingyou don’t still think about? Don’t sweat it man, this building’s fire alarms are shit. It’s probably just a false.”
Suddenly, I’m not sure I remember her apartment number correctly. Is she in Unit 23B? Or is it 32B? Or is it not even in building B at all? I can’t think straight, an uncomfortable worry racing through my veins.
Leroy rumbles down the road ten minutes later, sirens quiet this time, just lights spinning red across windows and windshields. The call doesn’t sound urgent, but my pulse doesn’t seem to care. It’s beating like we’ve pulled a child out of a burning hallway.
When we pull up to the apartment complex, there’s no smoke. No crowd. Just one old woman standing on the sidewalk in slippers, clutching a cat like a purse.
I hop out first and approach the leasing office rep who flagged us down. “Which unit?”
“Top floor. 23B. Neighbor called in a loud alarm.”
“Anyone inside?”
“Don’t know. No one’s answering.”
I nod. Try not to run.
I hit the stairwell with Jackson and Trevor behind me. The hallway reeks of cheap air freshener and laundry soap. The alarm’s going off, high-pitched and shrill, like a metal scream jammed into my brain. We bang on the door.
“Fire department! Anyone inside?”
Nothing.
Another knock, louder this time. Trevor checks the door.
“It’s locked.”
I’m already stepping back. “Forcing entry.”
“Maybe we should—”
I ignore the protest and don’t even care about the likelihood of getting written up for forcing entry without permission, but I don’t care.
One solid kick. Then two. The door bursts open with a crack that echoes down the hall.
And then, she’s there, standing in the middle of her kitchen. Barefoot. Hair piled on her head in a messy bun. Stubborn mascara that didn’t come off in the shower under her eyes.
She’s wearing a t-shirt that I instantly recognize as one I’ve been searching for in my apartment for three days.
She’s holding a frying pan in one hand and a towel in the other, and she’s got headphones blaring over her ears. Her smoke alarm is screaming overhead.
And she has the nerve to look at me likeI’mthe emergency.
