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at him as if he were in a freak show before recovering herself and saying pointedly:  Yeah, it hurts like hell!
 Well, let me have a quick look,  he says, propping the bike up against the building and coming to kneel beside her.  I m a medical student, actually. Not quite as good
as a proper doctor. But I think I should be able to look at an ankle.
Nooooooooo! I yell inside my head. If he gets his hands on her ankle, he ll see that she s completely fine, help her up, our entire plan will be ruined
Taylor is panicking as well, as the same thought hits her.
 Uh, I m not sure you should do that,  Taylor says feebly,  because, of, um, medical insurance . . . liability . . .
But just as the young man is reaching out to her allegedly twisted ankle, a third voice breaks in.
 You can t leave that bicycle against this building, young man!  it says reprovingly.  I m going to have to ask you to move it at once.
Taylor and the medical student both turn to look. It s the doorman. Not the one who was on duty that fateful Saturday night of the party, a much older one, with a
forbidding scowl. The medical student looks nervous. Taylor, however, rises magnificently to the occasion.
 I m sorry, buddy, what did you say?  she asks angrily.  This nice guy is trying to help me after I fell over and probably broke something on your stupid carpet, and
you don t even bother to come out and check if I m okay? Oh no, all you care about is a damn bike! If I ve hurt myself, my mom will sue your asses from here to L.A.
and back, believe me, and the fact that you didn t even bother to come out and see if I was okay will look really bad in court!
 Um, steady on,  the young man says uncomfortably to Taylor.  I don t actually mind moving my bike.
 You can both help me in right now so I can sit down inside instead of lying on some dumb carpet on the sidewalk, and this doctor guy can see if my ankle s okay!  
Taylor continues, barely registering his interruption.  Otherwise you  she points at the doorman  will be on the business end of a big fat lawsuit! My mom just loves
to sue people!
Blimey, I think, who is Taylor channeling? This isn t her at all, and she s doing it so well! The doorman starts to say something, but then he catches Taylor s eye and
thinks better of it, I can tell.
 Let s get you into the lobby, then, miss,  he says, coming over to where she s lying.  And perhaps after that the young gentleman wouldn t mind taking his bicycle
round to the service entrance.
The medical student says something, and they both start helping Taylor up, but I barely catch this, as I am now in motion, sneaking along the pavement, close to the
wall, moving fast and confidently, hitting the center of the gray doormat, which triggers the opening of the glass doors. Just as they start to open, which might catch the
doorman s attention, Taylor, who s been keeping an eye on my progress, lets out a big  Owwww!  of pain and sags heavily against the doorman, so that his entire
attention goes into not dropping her.
I m in. My trainers make no noise at all on the marble floor as I sprint across it. This is one of the most dangerous bits of all, because I don t know where I m going. I
dart my head frantically from side to side, looking for what I know has to be around here somewhere. . . . Keep going, Scarlett, keep looking. . . . It s not behind
the doorman s big desk, but it must be nearby, surely, because he d need to get to it on a regular basis. I m past the desk and scouring the wall with my eyes a door!
Yes! I dash toward it and pull it open. A second later and I m inside and not a second too soon, because I can already hear voices in the lobby. Taylor s is raised as
loud as possible to warn me of their presence.
I look around. I m in a corridor concrete floor, steel-gray walls, bright fluorescent lights running overhead a stark contrast to the discreetly lit dark wood and
marble of the lobby I ve just come through. This is most definitely the servants  area of the building. Good. I move down the corridor, listening intently in case there s
anyone around, but the only noise I hear is my own breathing . . . and my sharply indrawn gasp of excitement as I round a corner and come face to face with what 
I m looking for.
Three small lifts, set into the wall at waist height. Each one of them with a sign over the top labeled Penthouse A, B, or C. I press the call button for C, and it opens
immediately.
Oh God. I bend down and look inside. I ll fit, but it s going to be a tight squeeze.
I take a deep breath and brace myself. I knew what I was in for. I can t back out now.
I have to do this.
Before I can think it over any more, I climb awkwardly into the lift. It s about the size of a kennel for a big dog, thank God, a Doberman s kennel rather than a
Chihuahua s. Still, it rocks beneath my weight. I have to wiggle round once I m inside, so my upper body is at the front, and that makes it rock even more. I m curled
up tight, my trainers crammed against the far wall, and I reach out with one hand to press the button on the outside wall to start the lift moving, knowing that when I do,
the doors will close, and I ll be shut inside this small airless space. It s the scariest thing I ve had to do in my life.
I press the button and scoot my hand back inside as quickly as I can. The doors close. And the lift wobbles as the mechanism starts to engage. The floor I m lying on
jolts and rocks and starts to move upward, agonizingly slowly, so slowly that it feels like it could jam and stop dead at any moment, trapping me in here. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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