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Smoke continues to fill the room as sweat drips down the back of my neck. With one foot planted on the doorframe, I pull with the full force of my body, but it’s no use. I’m stuck on the second floor.
A sound creaks on the other side of the door, and I take a step back when I realize it’s footsteps.
“Help!” I cough out the word.
“Harloe?”
“Shane?” I pound a fist against the door. “I’m in here. The door—it’s stuck.”
“Fuck.” Something hits the door on the other side. “Step back. Someone’s messed with the lock. It’s melted or something.”
“Melted?” My throat tightens.
Someone trapped me in here?
Shane shoves his body against the door, rattling it on its hinges. He grunts with each attempt until it finally bursts open. Smoke billows out, masking him in the dark cloud at first.
“Harloe.” He takes a step inside, and I run at him, not thinking as I throw myself against his chest. “I’ve got you.”
He picks me up, and I can’t stop coughing. But he doesn’t seem to mind as he lifts me from the ground, one arm under my bare legs and the other around my back. His skin is hot on mine, reminding me I’m wearing a tank top and sleep shorts.
There’s no time to care as he carries me out of the burning building.
I curl against Shane, who rushes down the stairs. Only then do I get the full picture of what’s happening. Flames lick up the walls. They climb the large Ransack sign on the side of the building, eating away at my mother’s painted flowers.
The bar is burning before my eyes.
A cough turns to a sob as the fire quickly spreads. With every snap of wood—every crackle of the fire—the flames eat away at what little hope I had left.
“It’ll be okay.” Shane rubs small circles on my back with one thumb, holding me in his arms.
At the curb, his bike is on its side, like he jumped off it the second he arrived.
Sirens ring down the street, headed this way. My cheeks are soaked, and the rivers continue to run as I try to wipe them away.
“I’m okay now,” I say to Shane. Or maybe I say it to myself. “I’m okay.”
Shane sets me down, but his hands stay on my arms, grazing over the goose bumps prickling my skin. It’s not cold, but I can’t stop shaking.
When I try to look away, he tips my chin up. “What happened?”
I’ve never seen his eyes quite like this. A mix of anger and something else.
Fear, maybe?
“I don’t know; I was sleeping.” My voice shakes, and he wipes away a tear. “The smoke must have woken me up, so I put my shoes on and ran for the door, but it wouldn’t open. I couldn’t get out.”
“Someone messed with the lock from the outside. It’s like they took a torch to it and melted it shut or something. I didn’t get a good look.”
“Why would they do that?”
Shane doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to when his stone-cold expression tells me exactly what he’s thinking. Someone trapped me in my apartment before setting the bar on fire because they didn’t want me leaving.
They wanted me to die.
11
HARLOE
