The west wing corridor glowed orange at the edges, as if the fire beneath were pushing its fingers up through the floorboards. Smoke curled along the skirting boards. Alarms wailed in discordant shrieks. Somewhere above, a window shattered under thermal stress.

Joan Grimshaw ran anyway.

She clutched the leather satchel to her chest as though it were a child — tight, protective, desperate. The strap cut into her shoulder. She didn’t care.

The heat in the walls vibrated. Dust rained from the ceiling.

“Nearly there,” she whispered to herself. “Nearly out.”

Her breath came in high, wheezing bursts. Her hair — once immaculate — had come loose, hanging in damp strands against her face. Sweat stung her eyes. But she kept moving, feet slapping...

Please subscribe to keep reading.