Into The Flames (Firehouse Fourteen Book 4) (3 page)

"But I don't have any inner turmoil." A chilly breeze caught the words and carried them away. It didn't matter, because there was nobody there to hear them. Melanie stood outside, barely feeling the chilled air as she stared at the closed door and wondered what she was supposed to do now.

She needed to call her mother. Mom and Dad would know what to do.

She hoped.

How could she have lost her keys? She couldn't have, they should be right there with her car keys. Right on the same ring. They couldn't be lost.

But they were.

Melanie flipped through the key ring, frowning as she counted each key. Two keys to her car, a key to the small storage space she rented, a key to her parents' house. That was it, just four of them.

Where were the keys to her apartment? Two were missing: one for the main entrance door, and one to the actual apartment door. She kept them on their own tiny ring, which attached to the main ring. They should be there. Think. She needed to think.

She just had them yesterday, when she took them to have copies made so she could give a spare set to her mom to replace the ones she lost. She'd come home from the mega hardware store, used them to unlock both doors and placed them—

Oh sweets.

Melanie's shoulders slumped in defeat. How could she have been so forgetful? So spacey? She knew exactly where they were: on the small table right by her front door, probably on top of the tiny envelope holding the spare keys she just had made.

How could she not have put them back on her keyring? Yes, she had been distracted. She was always distracted right before she took her work to Anna's. But so distracted she actually forgot her keys?

This was
his
fault. It had to be. She wasn't sure why, only knew she had been completely out of sorts ever since she met her neighbor. So of course it was his fault. She was never out of sorts. Never. At least, not like this, not like she had been.

First that odd, tortured painting that Anna absolutely loved, and now this.

Melanie wished she had never lost her temper and gone next door that day last week. If she had just ignored him, just ignored the barbaric pounding on her walls like she had for the last three months, none of this would be happening.

She wished she had never met him!

The breeze kicked up with a small gust of chilled air, causing her to shiver. She hadn't bothered with a coat this morning, thinking the bulky sweater she had on would be warm enough. It wasn't as cold as it had been last week, the weather finally easing toward Spring. Maybe. Not that it had mattered this morning, because she knew she wasn't going to be outside at all.

Except now she was, and a chill went through her in spite of the sweater. She was stuck. She couldn't even call her mom to bring the spare keys because her mom's spare keys were sitting on that same little table with her own. Melanie could probably hit the buzzer for sweet Mrs. Lillian's apartment. Mrs. Lillian would let her in, and that would at least get her inside.

But she'd still be stuck, with no way to get into her apartment. She'd have to call maintenance and there was no telling how long that would take. And Melanie didn't really feel like sitting on the chilly concrete steps, waiting. Of course, if Mrs. Lillian let her in, she'd probably insist on Melanie coming in for a visit. She'd ply her with weak tea and show her the newest pictures of her grandkids while relating their latest escapades. Melanie would listen and smile and comment, all while she fended off the unwelcome attention of Little Bits, Mrs. Lillian's ankle-biting Chihuahua.

The complex was supposed to be animal-free, but nobody complained about Little Bits. He was such a tiny thing, there really wasn't anything to complain about. And normally Melanie enjoyed spending time with Mrs. Lillian. She was so sweet and friendly. But she talked. A lot. Non-stop. And Melanie just wasn't in the mood, not today.

All she wanted was to curl up on her small loveseat and listen to the strains of
La Bohèm
e
while she sipped a nice glass of Merlot. And pouted and pondered and brooded.

But first she had to get inside, and she didn't know how she was going to do that without her keys.

She stepped off the small front porch and looked up at her balcony. She only lived on the second floor, and the balcony actually had two doors leading into her apartment: the glass sliders, and the door leading from the kitchen. That was one of the reasons she chose this apartment in Cockeysville. Not that she really had the chance to use either door—or the balcony—that much since moving in, but the idea of having two doors had seemed quaint and appealing.

Another bonus was the fact that the complex wasn't surrounded by a bunch of buildings or businesses, not like the last apartment she had in the city. It was quiet, their building the last one at the edge of the complex, butting up to woods that eventually led to the water shed. Well, to the property surrounding the water shed. The reservoir was further away. But it was still quiet and peaceful, and the apartment was light and open and spacious, with plenty of room for her work.

If only she could get inside it.

Melanie frowned, still studying the balcony. The glass slider was locked, but the door to the kitchen wasn't. Maybe that wasn't very safe, but she didn't live in an area where that was an issue. No, her only issue was her neighbor, the Neanderthal. The very unhairy gorilla with no manners.

And holy sweets, she needed to stop thinking about him and figure out a way to get inside. It shouldn't be that hard. If she could somehow use the railing surrounding the porch to climb up, she could maybe probably reach the railing of her balcony. And if she did that, it should maybe probably be easy enough to just climb over and then she could get inside.

She pictured what she had to do in her mind. Step up on the railing while holding on to the brick wall for support. Lean forward and grab the railing around her balcony. A little stretch, a little hop, then pull herself over.

No problem. She could do this. Absolutely she could.

Maybe.

But not in the flats she was wearing. They had a hard sole, too slick for what she was going to do. She kicked them off, her toes curling against the cold concrete of the porch. She hadn't expected it to be quite that cold. It didn't matter, she wouldn't be standing here much longer.

She tugged the strap of her small bag and moved it over her head, so it was more like a cross-body bag than a purse. There. Now she was ready. She took a deep breath, telling herself again that she could do this, and stretched her leg up, trying to stand on the first railing.

She ended up straddling it instead, the long skirt twisted high around her legs.

Well. That didn't work.

Melanie looked down, frowning, trying to figure out what to do next. Maybe if she pulled her legs up like she was sitting cross-legged, she could move to her feet and then stand.

Okay, that was a little better. The railing was hard and cold under her bottom, and suddenly seemed thinned than she first thought. That shouldn't matter, though. All she had to do was push herself up and stand. She could do that.

And she did. Except she was facing the wrong way, away from her balcony. And eeks, why did the ground look so far away? It wasn't. It couldn't be, it was just her imagination.

Exactly. Just her imagination.

She took a deep breath and carefully turned around, her hands grabbing onto the brick wall for balance. There, now she was facing the right way. Except her balcony railing was a little higher than she thought, and not quite as close. She should still be able to reach it, though. All she had to do was lean forward and stretch a little, then hop off the railing while she pulled herself up. Gymnasts did things like this all the time. How hard could it be?

Melanie took a deep breath for courage, closed her eyes, and leaned forward, stretching. She probably shouldn't have closed her eyes, because the world suddenly swam in darkness and she felt herself falling. She sucked her breath in as panic swamped her. Her arms flailed and she was certain she was going to fall, waited for the impact of her body slamming against the cold hard ground, waited for the pain to explode through her crumpled corpse.

Did corpses feel pain?

And then her hands closed around something hard and cold. Flaky metal, rough against her palms. Melanie stopped breathing, the heavy pounding of her heart the only sound she could hear.

Because her heart was in her throat, and not in her chest where it should be.

An hour went by, or maybe just a few seconds, before she could finally open her eyes. This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all.

Her body was stretched across a wide expanse of nothing, her hands tightly wrapped around the thin metal spindles of her balcony railing. Her feet were braced against the porch railing but barely, held in place only by the curled toes of her bare feet. Somehow one foot had become caught in the hem of her skirt and she had the brief and silly thought that at least those toes would be warm when she died.

She was stuck. Truly and completely stuck. She couldn't push herself back because she was stretched too far forward. And she couldn't bounce or jump from the other railing because she didn't have any leverage. That, and she didn't think her feet would listen to her. Or that her arms would be able to support her.

Another cold breeze gusted around her, blowing thick strands of hair into her face. Melanie closed her eyes, too afraid to look down. The ground was too far away, too hard and unforgiving. She was stuck here. It was the middle of the week, in the middle of the day. There was nobody around to help her.

She should have just buzzed sweet Mrs. Lillian and called for maintenance. Or a locksmith. She should have played with Little Bits and smiled at his ankle-biting antics.

But she hadn't, and now she'd never see the silly dog again. Or sweet Mrs. Lillian. She was stuck here and she was going to die. Either from exposure from the cold weather, or from her body being battered and crumpled when she plunged to her death. Her parents would be so upset. Would there be a huge crowd at her funeral? Would there be tears and laments? Who would eulogize her? Anna would certainly say a few things. Nothing too sad, she hoped. Something light, uplifting. Maybe a little humorous…except Melanie wasn't the humorous type. She should have learned how to be funny and witty, only now it was too late.

Just one more regret she'd have to bear before plunging to her death. She should stop thinking, in case more regrets came to mind. She didn't want to die with a load of regrets. Maybe the end would come quickly. And be painless. Melanie couldn't bear to think of herself crumpled in a boneless heap on the cold unforgiving ground, suffering as the life slowly seeped away—

"What are you doing?"

The voice came from her left, deep and slightly amused. Was it the Angel of Death? Melanie didn't think so, not unless he sounded exactly like her Neanderthal neighbor. And how odd was it that she knew his voice? She shouldn't. And she shouldn't insult the Angel of Death by comparing his voice to the Neanderthal's. That probably wasn't the best way to make a good first impression.

"I'm sorry." Melanie whispered the apology, hoping the Angel of Death would understand. She didn't expect to hear a deep chuckle in response. Part of her wanted to open her eyes and turn her head to the side, to gaze upon the angelic face before death came to her. That might be pushing her luck, though, so she kept her eyes firmly closed.

"Sorry? Yeah, I'm not even going to ask." The voice came closer, still laced with that humor. Melanie didn't think that was very welcoming of him. "So what, exactly, are you doing?"

"I'm preparing to die. Please don't let it hurt too much."

Silence. She couldn't even hear the sound of the chilly breeze sweeping around her. Was she dead already? Had it happened that quickly? Melanie took a deep breath and eased her eyes open, just a tiny bit. Oh sweets, she was still hanging there, stuck between the railing and her balcony, the ground still too far away. Her cold hands tightened around the spindles of the balcony, her fingers cramping as flakes of paint dug into her skin. She took another deep breath, preparing herself for whatever fate was waiting for her, then looked down again.

Straight into a pair of deep brown eyes that twinkled with amusement. A noise that sounded too much like a squeal escaped her parted lips. The high-pitched shriek embarrassed her and she wanted to close her eyes, to turn her face away. She couldn't.

"Okay Smurfette. Want to tell me what it is you're trying to do?"

It was definitely her neighbor. She was sure there was irony in there somewhere but she was afraid to look too closely and figure out where. Maybe later. If she survived. But for now she just pursed her lips together and shook her head, the movement small and precise.

More laughter, warm and deep. Strong hands closed around her waist and she squealed again, her hands tightening even more against the balcony. Her feet slipped from the railing and she kicked her legs through the air, shrieking in fear. The hands on her waist slipped and she fell, her stomach connecting with something hard. There was a muffled grunt then arms, strong and hard and entirely too dangerous, closed around her, holding her in place.

"Smurfette, let go of the railing."

"No. I don't want to die."

A muttered curse, followed by a deep breath. "You're not going to die. Now let go."

"I'm going to fall."

"No, you're not."

"You're going to drop me."

"As tempting as that might be, I'm not going to drop you. Now let go."