Page 11 of Make Me Scream

“Come on!” Lane barks. “Let’s go!”

“Wait! I don’t see a fire. We have to save Alistair’s art!”

I try to grab one of the marble busts, but Lane doesn’t let go.

“Are you crazy? Fuck that, this is an emergency! Move it!”

His grasp is too hard to break, and my shoes begin to skid on the wet ground. If I didn’t give in and follow him, I’d fall.

People move quickly, but in an orderly fashion; I’m sure they’d hurry up if anyone saw an actual fire. Before long, Lane and I reach the street and he finally lets go. Without saying a thing, I work my way through the sodden mob until I find Joel.

“Are you okay?” he asks me, huddling in close.

“No, I’m fucking freezing!”

“Me too. You want to go home?” he asks.

I do. I want to jump into a hot shower as soon as humanly possible, although the last thing I want to do is ride the subway looking like I just came out of the sewer. I also wasn’t done checking out the exhibit.

“Do you think they’ll let us back inside?”

“Uh, no, Gwen. I don’t think so. Don’t they have to, like, clear the building?”

A wailing siren drowns him out as a firetruck rounds the corner.

“Hey, do you have any idea what the hell this is?” a woman asks us. “Did you smell smoke or anything?”

“No, nothing,” Joel answers. “Something must have set off the alarm, I guess.”

I groan, leaning my head on his shoulder.

Maybe those marble busts would be okay, but so much of Alistair’s art is being destroyed by those sprinklers. The paintings, the electronic stuff… and if there wasn’t even a fire, then it was for nothing!

I’m sure Lane fucking Porter will have a nice laugh about that.

Sighing, I look around for him. He’s at the door, still helping to usher people out of the Askew Gallery, even though the firefighters have mostly taken over.

I suppose I should go thank him for getting me out of the building, even if it was a false alarm.

I ask Joel to give me a minute and start to make my way over to Porter, who’s wandering away. I hurry, not wanting to miss my chance.

He slips under the awning of a Mediterranean restaurant next door and reaches into his jacket. I open my mouth to call his name, but stop as he pulls out a small, clear plastic bag.

What the fuck?

I duck behind a trash bin and watch Porter carefully open the bag and take out a phone. I nearly gasp when the screen turns on.

Did he have that on him the whole time? There weren’t supposed to be any phones at the exhibit. And why was it in a Ziploc bag?

Did Porter know about the fire alarm?

That son of a bitch.

I stand up to march over when the squawk of a megaphone chirps from behind us.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Rush Mundell says. “My apologies but due to this unexpected disruption, the exhibition has been canceled. The NYFD has asked everyone to please clear the street while they investigate. If you’ve left any personal property inside the building, please come back tomorrow to claim it. Again, I’m very sorry.”

For fuck’s sake.

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