The front door closed and there was a loud snick-snick as Bunce locked it from the outside. Alice lay still for a moment. Her heart beat heavily in her chest. Kris must have told Bunce that the Oriels weren’t buying the bookstore after all, and he’d gone straight to Darrell.
So much for his promise never to sell to the developer.
But if no one else wanted to buy the bookstore, could she blame him? At least Bunce had extracted a promise that Darrell wouldn’t tear down the bookstore. That was something. And if they put it in writing, maybe there would be a way to ensure Darrell didn’t break that promise. Though Bunce hadn’t insisted Darrell continue to run a bookstore. Darrell would gut the place—she had no doubt about that. Everything would go: Bookshelves. Flooring. And, worst of all, her beloved hideaway with the red door.
She got on her knees and then, cautiously grabbing the railing, stood. She felt wobbly—or the entire scaffolding did—and she wondered how Vince had felt working up here.
She stretched out a hand and touched the ceiling. The scaffolding was also close enough to the back wall that she could easily touch that too. A vein of spackle showed where Vince had filled in a crack—the leak he’d been fixing. It looked as if he’d almost finished.
Vince’s toolbox still stood at this end of the platform. A hammer and chisel lay next to it. The platform was covered in dust, but the worst of it—with chunks of crumbly mortar—lay in a heap at the other end. She supposed Vince must’ve swept the cement aside while he was working.
She examined it closer, sifting through it with her hands, and hoping to discover something hidden inside the cement dust. Nothing. She straightened up and shook her head. What had she expected, a polaroid photo showing the killer in action? This detective work wouldn’t be so easy.
With no real insights from the scaffolding, she decided to climb down. She descended slowly, carefully, her chest constricting whenever the metal structure shook and wobbled.
She was only a few rungs down when she happened to raise her gaze from her feet and saw something glinting, dangling from a diagonal brace. She cocked her head. It looked like a chain…
She reached her hand through the gap in the ladder. It was too far. She put one foot on a scaffolding beam and stepped off the ladder, still holding on with both hands. This brought her closer. But now she had to let go of the ladder with her left hand, so she could try to grab the object dangling from the brace.
She took a deep breath.
And let go.
She gripped the ladder hard with her right hand as she swayed on the beam, feeling like a tightrope walker. Her heart leapt into her throat. She tried to breathe slowly, but it felt as if her throat was blocking off the air.
Come on. You can do this.
She reached out, stretching her arm toward the chain.
Her fingertips brushed it and it swung away from her.
Just a little closer…
She leaned farther out. There was nothing below her but metal braces and the hard linoleum floor.
Don’t look down.
She focused her attention on the chain. Her right hand, growing moist with sweat, slipped, and she gasped. Her left foot almost slipped. She pulled back and grabbed the ladder with both hands, her heart hammering against her chest, her throat burning.
If I fall…
She forced herself to look straight ahead. Looking down would only spook her more. She inhaled. She wiped off her right hand on her pants.
It’s now or never…
She released her left hand from the ladder and stepped further out on the beam. Gripping the ladder firmly, she leaned out as far as she could. Her arm muscles strained. Her right hand was already getting slippery again.
Her left fingertips brushed the chain. Her right hand slid along the metal ladder rung. A couple more seconds and she’d lose her grip.
But she was so close…
Her right hand slid again, two fingers coming loose. She held on with her ring finger and pinkie, nothing else, as she lunged at the chain. Her right hand snagged it, and she pulled back just as her ring and pinkie fingers slipped off the rung. For an instant, she stood on the metal scaffolding beam without holding onto anything.
Then she began to flail, her hands turning in wild circles to keep her balance. Gravity tugged at her shoulders, urging her backward. Her heels slipped off the metal beam. She was falling backward.
Whipping out her right hand, she slammed the palm of her hand onto hard metal and she closed her fist—with a cry of relief, she felt cold metal against her fingers.
And then she fell.
Her feet flew off the metal beam, and the world spun.
But her right-handed grip on the ladder stopped her fall.
Instead, she swung back against the scaffolding, slamming into the ladder. A metal bar dug into her ribs. She cried out.
She panted. Blinked away tears of pain. Then, looking down at the floor below, she laughed, so relieved to be dangling off the ladder.
Feet back on the ladder, she pulled herself close, hugging the metal ladder, still laughing with relief.
She raised her left fist, in which she clutched the chain.
Hello, shiny little thing, she thought, you’d better be worth the fall…