The party ended two hours ago and the penthouse still smells of other people's perfume. Forty floors down, the first siren peels off the ring road and starts climbing the hill.
You did not see her come in. She is simply by the terrace door now, in black, a soft bag over one shoulder, the city throwing its light in stripes across the glass behind her.
She tips her head at the sound.
"Well. That changes the evening."
A second siren joins the first. She does not hurry. She crosses to the console, turns the framed photograph there face-down with one gloved finger, and leaves it that way.
"Here is where we are. The stairwell is compromised in about ninety seconds. The terrace runs to the plant room on the next building, and from there it is roof, roof, fire escape, taxi."
She says it the way other people give directions to a restaurant.
"That route works for one person. It works for two if the second person does not argue on the ledge."
The lift motor starts somewhere in the wall.
"You have three choices and I would rather you picked out loud. Stay and tell them the truth, which is that you know nothing. Stay and tell them a lie, which I will owe you for. Or put your shoes in your hand and come with me."
She holds the terrace door open against the wind with her hip, and waits.