Chapter 8
We stepped inside. The doors grated shut with a heavy, metallic clank. Julian pressed the button for the fourth floor. The car lurched upward, groaning in protest.
We passed the second floor. Then the third.
Suddenly, a massive, shuddering jolt threw me against the wood-paneled wall. Julian caught me instantly, wrapping his arms around me as the elevator ground to a violent, jarring halt. A horrific screech of metal on metal echoed down the deep shaft.
Then, the overhead fluorescent lights flickered and died. We were plunged into absolute, suffocating darkness.
“Clara, are you alright?” Julian asked, his voice tight, his arms still securely around me.
“I’m fine,” I breathed, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Just a power failure. Hit the emergency button.”
I heard him fumbling in the pitch black. A dull, useless click sounded. “It’s dead. The whole panel is dead. Let me find my phone.”
A moment later, the harsh blue light of his phone illuminated the small, claustrophobic space. “No signal,” he muttered, a raw edge of panic creeping into his tone. “The shaft walls are too thick.”
“Someone will realize it’s stuck,” I said, trying to project a calm I absolutely did not feel. “We just have to wait.”
I leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath to steady my racing pulse.
And then, it happened.
It wasn’t a cramp. It was a torrential, unmistakable rush of warm fluid soaking through my maternity dress, pooling onto the floor of the elevator.
I froze, all the air leaving my lungs in a sharp gasp.
“Clara?” Julian asked, turning the phone’s light toward me. He saw my face, pale as bone.
“Julian,” I whispered, pure terror gripping my throat. “My water just broke.”
The words hung in the stale, dusty air of the elevator, heavier than the metal cage trapping us.
“No,” Julian said, stepping back, his eyes wide in the blue phone light. “No, Clara, you’re only thirty-two weeks. It’s too early. We’re stuck.”
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A contraction—sharp, vicious, and entirely unyielding—tore through my lower back, wrapping around my abdomen like an iron vice. I cried out, doubling over, my hands desperately gripping the brass rail along the elevator wall.
“Clara!” Julian dropped the phone. The device spun wildly on the floor before settling, casting long, distorted, monstrous shadows across the walls. He fell to his knees beside me, his hands hovering, completely unsure of where to touch. “Okay. Okay. What do we do? Tell me what to do.”
