So I dashed across the landing to the next flight of stairs, climbed them, and at the top, I found myself faced with a choice: either opening a door directly in front of me, or running around another landing to my right, at the end of which a second door awaited. Hearing footsteps below me, I panicked and opened the door in front of me.

I’d entered into a small room cluttered with cleaning supplies and ladders. It smelled musty, and dust sparkled in the dim light creeping into it from a tiny window overhead. It appeared to be a utility closet, and it was most certainly not in frequent use. Another set of stairs, a much shorter set, ascended toward a small landing with a hatch door on its ceiling, and I noticed once my eyes adjusted to the dark that the small window was part of the hatch. Barely thinking about the danger in climbing higher, I dashed up the stairs and fumbled with the dead bolt on the hatch door. The door creaked on old hinges when I pushed it upward to throw it open, and I hesitated momentarily before climbing the last two steps and hoisting myself out into the harsh daylight.

I’d reached the roof, only that fact didn’t fully register in my mind until I saw clouds overhead.

The roof. I was standing atop what was probably the tallest building in town, aside from the high school.

The door below me at the bottom of the stairs opened, and Mr. Simmons burst through it. Although he’d been chasing me like a crazed animal, when our eyes connected, I could see that he was in complete control of his actions. He knew exactly what he was doing; he was going to kill me.

I should have raised the gun and shot him right there and then. The space was so small that I couldn’t possibly have missed if I’d found the strength to just pull the trigger. But instead, I pulled my legs through the opening, slammed the hatch door, turned, and took a step forward.

A cry of frustration escaped from my throat when I realized the mistake I’d made. I had stepped out onto a small widow’s walk, only about five feet square and surrounded by an ornate wrought-iron railing. I spun around in absolute fright, realizing that the rooftop of the mansion on all sides of the enclosed walk was a series of steep peaks. I’d known that, of course, before climbing out there. The house was a fake Tudor; its peaked rooftop poked out above the treetops encircling the property, visible from the street.

Figuring it was more for my safety than for Mr. Simmons’s, I flung the gun into the trees with all of my strength. Before I could even watch it sink into the sea of pines below, the hinges of the hatch door squeaked behind me, and Mr. Simmons scrambled out to join me on the rooftop. Once standing, he raised his arms out toward me almost as if he was advancing forward to embrace me. “You know that this is the end,” he told me calmly. “You want to save your friends? This is how you do it.”