Page 193 of Damián

“Don’t worry, I’ll even ask them to take pictures of you on the floor.”

“Wow, thanks,” I laugh, grabbing the edge of the refrigerator, planting my foot on the door handle, and hoisting myself up.

I grab the edges of the aluminum ductwork, pull myself upward, kicking my legs in midair, and wiggle my torso into the tight opening. The metal groans and flexes beneath my body, scraping against my hips, but I force myself forward until my legs clear the room.

Oh, my God!

“I’m in!”

“Do you want me to call the cops or someone to go get you out of a stuck vent?”

“Absolutely not,” I tell her as I crawl down the vent, taking a right into a new connecting duct. “I want all free personnel to be able to go help them.”

“Okay, what’s the plan now?”

“Find the vent exit to a room that’s not locked up.”

“Didn’t you have to unscrew it?”

“I don’t know, I’ll kick it.”

I shift my weight to the left, preparing to slide down into the next shaft, but—

CRACK!

The support bracket beneath the ductwork snaps.

“Whoa—!” I yell.

The entire section of the aluminum floor gives way beneath me. I drop straight down through the ceiling tiles in an explosion of white plaster and dust.

The impact knocks the wind right out of my lungs, sending a cloud of flour and sugar into the air and making me cough.

“Ouch…”

“Ollie! Ollie, what happened?!” Zara screams through the phone.

I lie flat on my back for a second, staring up at the gaping hole in the ceiling, waving my hand to clear the thick white powder drifting through the air. I sit up, rubbing my aching shoulder, and grope around the dark room until my fingers wrap back around my phone.

“I’m okay,” I wheeze, coughing up a bunch of dust. “I fell through the ceiling, and now I am covered in white dust.”

“Are you in a cocaine room?”

“I’m at the Harknetts’ HQ, not at my family’s estate,” I grunt with pain as I shift on the floor. “They don’t have a cocaine room.”

I wipe my face with the sleeve of my shirt, turn on the flashlight on my phone, and look around the room. It’s a narrow, windowless pantry lined with long wooden shelves. The shelves are completely stacked with jars of coffee beans, boxes of tea, and dozens of organized containers.

Oh, shit…

Please be a cocaine room, please be a cocaine room…

I bend down, checking the label on a cardboard box right next to my knee.

Ginger cookies.

I’m screwed.

“Zara, I just destroyed their most sacred room… the fika storage room,” I say, and Zara bursts out laughing.