I sent a few sparks flying its way and it gave me one last hiss, then tore off ahead, still keeping to the same path. Determined to head in this direction, however nervous I made it. I followed.

It had slid between two rows of boxes. A tight squeeze, but I made it. When I shone the light ball ahead, another cat turned, hissing, orange fur puffing. I stopped and it lowered its head to the floor again. A rasping sound. It was licking the floor. I tossed the light ball over it. Tendrils of blood snaked across the concrete.

I raced forward, elbows knocking the boxes on either side. Ahead, I saw a leg stretched out. Light chinos. Brown loafers. I pictured Michael from earlier, his tan pants and darker shoes.

I shoved my way through, sending boxes crashing. Michael was draped over the remains of a smashed wooden crate. On his back, face turned the other way, head at an angle that was wrong, just wrong. Blood dripped from his fingertips, slow and steady, a pool growing on the concrete floor beneath him.

I stood there, brain stuttering, telling myself it was someone else wearing clothing like Michael’s. It wasn’t him. Couldn’t be him.

Then I thought I saw him breathe and I dropped beside him, slipping in the blood and not caring. My fingers went to his neck. No pulse. His skin was chilled, clammy.

I turned his face toward me. His head moved easily. Too easily. His neck was broken.

His eyes were open. Open and empty.

No, I’d seen him move. Goddamn it, I’d seen him move. How could he break his neck? What could—?

I looked up. The ledge of the observation deck was twenty feet above me.

He stepped back too far. Went over the edge. Hit the crates. Hit the cement. Broke his neck.

No! Goddamn it, no! Not Michael. He’d never be that careless.

My phone vibrated. It was like an electric shock and I jumped. I fumbled and pulled it out. Jesse. I answered.

“Hey, just wanted to make sure everything’s—”

“Michael. He‘s—I found Michael. He fell. He’s—” I squeezed my eyes shut. “He’s dead.”

When Jesse didn’t answer, I said, “He’s dead. Michael’s dead.”

“Shit ...” He floundered, then came back, firm. “Are you still at the scene? Have you called 911?”

“N-no. I should. I will.”

“Do that. I’m on my way.” A pause. “Where are you?”

I gave him the address.

“Call 911 and hang tight. I’ll be there as fast as I can. Don’t move anything. Don’t touch anything. Got it?”

I said I did. Then I hung up. I pressed 9, and crouched there, finger poised over the 1.

This was no accident. I was sure of that. Sure. He’d been murdered.

Dead.

Oh, God.

Dial the numbers, damn it.