Page 55 of Fire and Icing

I put on my gloves. “Yep. Dane. He’s right downstairs, waiting for you.”

“Uh …” she whimpers slightly. “It’s really small in here. My dress is stuck in the doorway.”

Jillian starts to cry.

That’s actually a good sign.

Greyson speaks into his transmitter. “We’re opening the internal doors.”

Patrick’s voice comes through. “Copy. All clear.”

“Hey, hey. We’ve got you,” I assure Jillian. “Your dress and you are getting out of this elevator in less time than it takes for me to heat a frozen pizza. Could you do me a favor?”

“Yes.”

“I need someone to repeat what I’m doing while I make a way for you to climb out. It’s protocol, and Greyson here always messes it up. Could you be the one to echo my steps back to me? I need you to focus. Can you do that for me?”

“Sure.”

I wink at Greyson. He nods.

“I’m going to walk you through what I’m doing,” I shout down to Jillian. “You just keep repeating what I tell you, okay?”

“Y-y-y-yes.” Her voice quavers.

“Okay. I’m going to pry the doors open. Focus for me, Jillian. What am I doing now?”

“You’re prying the doors open.”

“Yes. And you just need to stay back, okay?”

“I’m in the corner.”

“Perfect, stay still.”

She repeats my instructions.

We manage to crank the car up a little higher — not much, but enough to give us a shot. When Greyson pops the inner doors, we can see through an opening of only the top half of the elevator car, like a window going halfway down a tight metal box.

I lay flat on the floor of the fourth floor hallway, peering down into the car. Jillian’s tucked in the corner, eyes wide, dress bunched around her, her train extending out around her and down into the elevator shaft below us.

“Jillian, I’m going to slide in now, okay?”

“You’re sliding in?” she echoes.

No time for further explanation. I stretch out, brace my hands on the elevator floor, and drop my upper body through the opening. Gravity does the rest. My boots lift off the tile as I slither in like I’m diving under a fence.

The second I’m upright, I scan the jammed train of her dress and signal for the tool bag.

“Okay,” I say, standing up. “Let’s see what we’ve got going on here.”

“My dress is still stuck.”

I remove my shears and look at Jillian.

I’m well aware how careful brides are about picking the dress. Jillian might have even dreamed of this wedding for years—maybe she pretended to be a bride when she was a little girl. This is her day and this is her dress. But she’s not getting out of here with all of it.

“Jillian?”

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