The Elevator. Angela Hunt
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find out what happened, they might arrest her, maybe even put her in prison. She has tried her best to avoid trouble, but trouble seems to find her at every turn, even in los Estados Unidos.
Ernesto said she wouldn’t be able to run forever, but she has to try. Again. She and Carlos and Rafael must go someplace where they will never be found.
As the elevator descends with a smooth whoosh, Isabel feels a rush of gratitude for its speed. If this were a weekday morning, the building would be so crowded it would take forever for the express to travel from the top of the building to the custodial office on the seventh floor. Today, however, the elevator escorts her to the lower level without interruption.
The bronze doors slide open, revealing a concrete hallway, scraped walls, dented lockers and another cleaning cart—
No.
Isabel’s hand flies to her mouth. She left her cart in Rossman’s outer office. Anyone who sees it will know she was there…and might guess why she left in a panic.
As the elevator door begins to close, she thrusts out her arm and stops it.
What should she do? She could clock out, go to her car and drive home. She’d have to beg Carlos to leave the area because he wouldn’t want to go, not with the hurricane coming. Driving on old tires in a storm would be dangerous.
But how can they escape when la policía are positioned throughout the city? They will stop the car and they will want to know why Carlos waited so long to leave. Carlos is a good man; he will not lie and Isabel will not allow him to lie for her. So she will tell the truth, and they will put her in jail and tell the attorney general that a criminal has been working under his nose all these many months….
She can’t run, not today. She will have to wait, talk to Carlos, pray that the authorities never learn that she was in Rossman’s office this morning.
So she must go back upstairs and get her cart.
When the elevator buzzes to protest the prolonged stop, Isabel takes a half step back and allows the doors to close. As the car begins to move, she returns to the back wall and presses her hand to her chest, where a bulky, cold lump is scraping against her breastbone. Things will be all right. She can get her cart, return it to the seventh floor, clock out and go home. Her secret will keep; no one will know for hours, maybe days.
A chill shivers her skin when the car stops on the ground floor. The lobby.
¿Qué pasa? Her thoughts whirl in a rush, then she remembers: she forgot to push the button. Someone in the lobby must have called the elevator, and this was the closest car.
Though it hurts to draw breath, Isabel reminds herself to stay calm and keep her head down. She can’t let anyone see the distress in her eyes or her trembling hands. Fortunately, few people in this place ever really see her. They pass in an office or hallway and notice her no more than they notice the potted plants or the exit signs above every stairwell doorway.
She steps to the far right corner of the car as the bronze doors open. Mi querido Dios, let me remain alone a little longer….
God must not be listening. The sweet scent of perfume reaches her nostrils as dos gringas enter the car.
Isabel holds her breath as the first woman, a slim brunette, pulls out her access card, slips it into the security slot and presses the button for thirty-six.
The other woman stands silent against the left wall, her hands shoved into the pockets of her tan coat. The lump in Isabel’s chest grows heavier when the second woman does not move to press any of the elevator’s many buttons.
Are they all riding to the thirty-sixth floor?
Michelle smiles at the woman who followed her into the car. “Can I press a button for you?”
The woman shifts her gaze from the elevator panel to Michelle’s face. “No, thank you.” Her shoulder-length hair, a vibrant shade of red, is far drier than Michelle’s, so she must have parked in the garage.
Smart lady.
Out in the lobby, Gus has left his station and is rocking toward them on stiff hips. “Ladies, I have to close this building and leave by ten, so I really must advise—”
Michelle is about to ratchet the argument up a notch when the redhead steps forward and jabs the Door Close button. The doors slide together before the security guard can reach them.
Michelle laughs. “He really doesn’t want us to go upstairs.”
The other woman shrugs. “I really don’t care what he wants.”
“I think we’re all a little on edge today.” Michelle glances at the cleaning woman at the back of the car, but she seems to be studying the floor. A pink portable CD player is clipped to her sweater pocket, and from it a gray wire snakes toward her head and ends in a pair of earbuds.
Michelle snorts softly and turns back toward the front of the car. No wonder the housekeeper is oblivious. She probably hasn’t heard a word they’ve said.
She pulls the edges of her raincoat together as the express elevator begins its ascent. Time to focus on Parker. In a moment she’ll be face-to-face with the man who could be the love of her life. She’ll hear what he has to say and he’ll listen to her.
After he hears her challenge, he’ll either react with joy, indifference or irritation. Maybe he’s been waiting for her to state her willingness to start a family; maybe he’s never guessed that a successful career woman might want a husband and children.
On the other hand…maybe he thinks three children are enough. Maybe he’s done a little digging in her past and he doesn’t want her to play any role in his kids’ lives. Maybe he doesn’t want a wife because he’s content with a part-time lover.
If he’s that narrow-minded, she’ll either win him over or she’ll move on. But she will not worry about the future. Since becoming independent, she’s never encountered an obstacle she couldn’t overcome…one way or another.
Gina stares at the bronze elevator panel and struggles to corral her racing thoughts. The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry….
Who said that, Shakespeare? No. Burns, but not in those exact words. Saikaku, that Japanese poet, phrased it another way: there is always something to upset the most careful of human calculations.
She should have allowed for Murphy’s law, chaos theory, whatever they’re calling it these days. She should have realized the security guard might give her a hard time. She should have considered the possibility that other people might share a ride in the elevator.
She had been certain the thirty-sixth floor would be deserted by the time she arrived, but these two women are on their way to that same landing.
In this situation, three is definitely a crowd.
Gathering up the pearls at her throat, Gina cuts a glance to the woman across the car. The tall and slender stranger holds herself like a model or a dancer. Miss Tilson, the guard called her, and Gina recognized the name from an office on the thirty-sixth floor. What else had she said? She’d come to pick up a file?
Must be a terribly important client.
The brunette, who has closed her eyes and is leaning against the wall, doesn’t notice Gina’s scrutiny. She’s wearing jeans, but they’re adorned with a designer logo and the blouse beneath the raincoat has the soft sheen of silk. Her nails are short and neatly trimmed, her glasses tortoiseshell, her hair a chic brown cap. Even in denim and sneakers, the woman radiates success. She’s the type to notice things…so she’s one to avoid.
When the maid coughs, the brunette lifts her head and Gina hastily looks away. She’d give anything to be invisible at this moment, but she’ll settle for remaining anonymous.
She leans against the wall and peers over her shoulder at the thick Hispanic woman in the pink uniform.