“Hi, hello, excuse me,” I tell him. “Was there an accident in there? Did an elevator just crash? Was there a person in the elevator?”
The man stands there stupidly, looking at me. He seems like a waiter or an out-of-work actor. He has light brown skin—Middle Eastern, maybe?—and is almost attractive. He’s covered in a sheen of sweat.
“I’m a police detective,” he says. “There’s a police substation underground, connecting all the buildings. How do you know about the elevator crash?”
“You are a detective?” I ask dubiously.
“Lieutenant Pete Jay,” he says.
“Well, Detective Jay, did an elevator just crash?”
“How do you know that?” he asks. “It just happened thirty minutes ago. Are you a reporter?”
“No,” I say, cringing. “I’m his sister. The sister of the man in the elevator. Is he okay?”
“You are the janitor’s sister?” he says.
“He isn’t really a janitor,” I explain. “He’s my brother. We were playing this game… my father is making us play it. I don’t know, but I think it’s all some kind of a hoax.”
The detective lights his cigarette. He sucks in and then blows a bunch of smoke out through his clenched teeth.
“You’re going to have to slow down,” he says. “There was an elevator crash and there is one fatality. But you say you are a relative? Not a reporter?”
“Fatality,” I say, feeling faint. I sit down on the curb.
Another man comes out through the service entrance. He is roughly the same age as Detective Jay, but more intense and smoldering. He has a jumpy, frenetic energy, like a street preacher or a smartphone salesman at a kiosk.
“She knows about the crash,” says Detective Jay. The other man shakes his head.
“Craziest damn thing, huh?” he says. “I’m Detective Carter Rutledge.”
“Listen,” says Detective Jay. “You can’t go anywhere, ma’am. We need to ask you some questions about why your brother was in the building. We are so sorry and we understand if you are upset, but we are still trying to figure out what happened. We’re having a hard time getting the body out of the wreckage, if I may be perfectly blunt.”
I sigh, shuddering. I put my head in my hands.
“You seem like a lady who can handle blunt,” says Detective Jay. “Now could you please tell us the name of the man?”
“Henley Nylo,” I say flatly. “Of the Nylo Corporation. I am Caitlyn Nylo, his sister.”
Jay and Rutledge look at each other.
“Of the Nylo Corporation?” asks Jay.
“So damn strange,” says Rutledge.
“What’s open around here?” asks Jay, looking up and down the street.
“There’s a pizza parlor,” says Rutledge, pointing.
“Outstanding,” says Jay.
Just at that moment, a long black limousine pulls up to the curb. The doors open and Alistair and Angelo Marino get out, looking haunted.
“What happened?” asks Alistair. “Is it real? Is it some kind of prank?”
“These are two detectives,” I say. “They’re telling me that Henley is dead.”
“What precinct are you?” asks Angelo Marino.
“This precinct,” says Detective Rutledge.
“We service the tunnels beneath Midtown,” adds Detective Jay.
“Can I see your badges?” asks Angelo Marino. “I am the personal lawyer of the Nylo family.”
The detectives look at each other and then one of them shows Angelo Marino a badge on a chain from under his shirt.
“We are still investigating what happened,” says Detective Rutledge. “Let’s all go to Joe’s Famous over there on the corner and talk.”
“If I may speak for my partner,” Detective Jay adds, “first of all, we must say that we are a little confused about how you are all here. Did you get some kind of fucking Google alert?”
“We saw it,” I say. “We saw a video of it. He lost all his lives in this game we are playing. And then he lost his life for real.”
Angelo Marino steps in front of me.
“Gentlemen, she is distraught and exhausted,” he says. “Her father died a few days ago, and now her brother has been killed in a gruesome accident. We would love to answer your questions and also to be as helpful as possible. But you must tell us what is going on here.”
“I need food,” says Detective Jay. “Come on.”
Detective Jay leads the way as Rutledge goes back inside, presumably to check up on what is happening with the wreckage in the elevator. As we walk over to the pizza place, a paramedic strolls out the front doors of the Empire State Building, walks over to the ambulance, and kills the lights. No more emergency, I guess. There’s nothing that can be done.
I do a quick count. I have two lives left, Bernard has two lives left, Gabriella has two lives left. Alistair only has the one. But what does any of that mean? Could Henley’s death just be some kind of horrible coincidence? Or did someone just murder my brother? And if so, is it possible my father’s death wasn’t an accident? Was he murdered too, by the same person?
Joe’s Famous Pizza is completely empty, except for a man with forehead and neck rolls who is wiping down the tables and looks glum to see us walk in. I sit down at one of the booths in the back. Angelo Marino and my brother join me. The entire restaurant is lit in fluorescents and neon. There are mirrors on all the walls. I stare at myself in the mirror right beside my shoulder. I look haggard and frightened.
Detective Jay is more eager to order food than to talk to us. He gets four slices, picking them out from where they sit cold on the counter behind glass. As he joins
