HARPER
I'd be lying if I said I didn't consider turning around and sprinting out of the building the moment the fire alarm shrieked louder.
But that would've made me a terrible friend.
Clara was my best friend. If she was still in the bathroom—hurt, unconscious, or worse, trapped and crying for help—and I ran off like a coward to save myself, I'd never forgive myself.
"Clara!" I shouted, slamming open the seventh stall door.
My eyes widened.
Two men were making out like their lives depended on it. They yelped, scrambling to cover their half-naked torsos, but surprisingly kept going. Apparently, not even the blaring alarm or imminent danger could tear them apart.
"Shit. I'm sorry!" I blurted, backing out quickly.
I pushed into the next restroom, nerves sparking like live wires under my skin. Every step made my pulse jump. I prayed—please let her be in the next one, safe, conscious, alive.
