Ashes of the Fall Read Free Page B

Circle-owned real estate holding company. When I step out, the elevator doors snap shut.
    An electronic arrow appears behind the pastel yellow wallpaper, flashing green to my right before disappearing in a soft, effusive glow. I follow its instructions, formulating an introduction as I go along the same-looking rows of doors.
    This should be easy.
    It’s what I do: manufacture trust, belief and friendship out of nothing. But what if something really matters, where the cost of failure or saying the wrong thing is high? You could argue that I was always playing with fire—con the wrong person, end up with a noose around my neck, swaying from a well-buffed light post.
    But that’s never been a particular concern of mine.
    This, though—it’s a feeling I can’t quite describe, or handle, because it’s so damn unfamiliar. My stomach turns over with dread as I continue past the endless rows of doors. I listen for sounds of life within, but they’re either soundproofed or the occupants browbeaten into silence.
    There are many things I could say to Matt, but one sticks in my mind.
    Why the hell did you leave?
    It’s an accusation, the wrong play, immediately sets the frame wrong. But it’s also the truth, and I can’t actually think of anything else, so I try to push everything from my mind as the hallway numbers tick down, the moment of truth growing closer with each step.
    Then, like I’ve been transported here by magic, I’m in front of Apartment 3121B, still with nothing good to say, no angle. I run my hands through my dark, neat hair, consider turning around, heading back to the far-safer and more predictable expanses of the Wild West, when I hear something.
    It sounds like a refrigerator.
    This shouldn’t be odd, but in the anti-septic, funereal silence of the endless hallway, it’s like the finale to a fireworks display. And when I get the courage to look up past my shoes, take in the actual door to 3121B in all its glory, I see that it’s already ajar.
    I look for a light, try to think for a chime I missed amidst a never-ending symphony of them. But no, unlike everything else in this technological haven, the doors are the type you open with lock and key—a quaint throwback to a time when a deadbolt was your best line of defense against thieves.
    With a cautious nudge from my knuckles, I push against the heavy wood. The hinges squeak. The hum—definitely a fridge—grows louder as the door swings open a little less than halfway, and I peek inside. Bright light from an uncovered window filters into the hall, and I squint as my eyes adjust.
    “Matt,” I say, my voice a couple levels up from a whisper, “you there?” Not wanting to be attacked by some sort of electronic guard-dog technology that I’m unaware of, I hang in the hallway, looking through the three-foot crack, taking in the apartment.
    Pretty standard, albeit nice—a kitchen island with granite countertops, chrome fixtures. Floor to ceiling windows that show a view of the river, almost all of New Manhattan—at least, the buildings that are shorter. Some of them mar the view, altering the landscape like pixels on a bum streaming feed. National Hall stands smack in the middle of it all, its white finish gleaming.
    Cherry floors, mahogany furniture that I can smell the age and expense of. On a wall, near a door that must lead to the bedroom, is a screen. I shouldn’t say it’s on the wall. The thing is the entire damn wall.
    Another door opens, and I jump high enough to almost hit my head on the frame. I turn around to see a long-haired woman hunched over, locking her door in a hurry.
    “Hey,” I call down, my voice loud despite only three or four doors separating us, “you know Matt?”
    “I don’t know anything,” she says, her eyes concentrated on the lock.
    “I’m, uh, I’m an old friend of his, and his door was open,” I say.
    She fumbles with her key, dropping it on the floor. I walk over, and she gives me a look like I might be