6. Everly #2
The smart play—let the threat pass. If necessary, strike from behind.
I’ve written this scene before. Too many befores. I know the timing.
I’ve never once considered that my hands might shake on the strap despite five years of fictional confidence.
A flashlight beam swings through the murk—left, right, grazing the fountain rim above my head.
I flatten. The light moves on.
The footsteps pass my position. Back exposed.
That is definitely not a security guard. He’s wearing jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt. So a lumberjack zombie. Or a wildling from the other side of the wall…
He stops. Turns.
This is it, E.J.!
I summon every ounce of courage inside me, surge to my feet, and swing. My camera bag arcs through the dark, every ounce of adrenaline channeled into one rotational strike like I’m Arya Stark. I can’t help it. I now have White Walkers in my brain.
The bag connects, hitting ribs with a dense thud. A grunt follows.
Aaaand…what was I thinking? That little thud did exactly nothing. And now I’ve poked a bear.
My heart rate spikes, and I flail another shot.
He turns, and his hand catches the strap mid-swing.
The flashlight clatters and spins, throwing wild strobing arcs across the tiled floor. I yank back on the bag, but he’s got the strap clenched in his fist. And now we’re in a tug-of-war, both of us shouting over top of each other.
“WHAT THE—”
“GET BACK—”
“Stop—STOP—it’s me—”
“Let go—”
“EVERLY. It’s ME.”
The flashlight beam lands on his face.
Beckett Benson. Dust in his hair. Cobwebs on his collar. Grime on his jaw. Shirt filthy. Eyes wide. One hand on the strap of my bag, the other pressed against his ribs where it connected.
“You hit me,” he says.
“You snuck up on me.”
“I was just walking!”
“Sneakily—” I stop. Rewind. “Why are you covered in dust?”
He looks down at himself, makes a face. It looks a little like…embarrassment?
When has Beckett Benson ever been embarrassed? I didn’t think he possessed that much humility.
Okay, that’s not fair. Clearly, Sutton Blake and Everly Hart need to have a little chat.
“I was locked in a janitor’s closet. By my teammate. I crawled through a ceiling to escape.”
Okay, yes, I’m staring. “A ceiling.”
“On my stomach. Fifteen feet. There were mice.” He brushes a cobweb off his shoulder. “Possibly rats. I’m choosing not to dwell.”
“Your teammate locked you in a closet?”
“Yes.”
“And you crawled through the ceiling.”
“Feeling like a broken record here, Everly.”
Something tectonic happens in my diaphragm. A seismic event. Unstoppable. A laugh starts to bubble—
No. No. Clamp down—
He cocks his head. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t you dare.”
“I’m not—” But I am. I am!
“You hit me with a camera, and now you’re laughing.”
“I’m not—”
But I am, and we all know it. And I blame the crazy fear that had me walloping him with my camera and the ensuing adrenaline rush, but I’m almost bent over now, laughing. “I’m sorry!”
“You’re laughing.”
I sink to the ground, wiping my face. “I’m sorry, I can’t…”
He shakes his head. And then something happens to his face—not a smile, but his jaw softens. His eyes change.
I stop. Because the way he’s looking at me is suddenly way more dangerous than White zombie Walkers in an abandoned mall.
We’re in the dark again, but thanks to the flashlight he’s reclaimed from the floor, I can see now what I didn’t last time we were in the dark together: Beckett without the jersey.
Just a guy. A hot guy, but still, just a guy.
Who, by the way, is also stuck in a mall. With or without White Walkers.
I let out a calming breath, suck the laughter back up. “I’m sorry I hit you.”
“Yeah, well. At least you didn’t lock me in a closet. Consider yourself off the hook this time.” He smiles then, and maybe it’s not as cold in this corridor—the junction between the mall entrance and the rink side—as I thought it was. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I was writing and lost track of time.” I cock my head. “Why did your friend lock you in a closet?”
“He’s not my friend. And I’m not exactly sure.”
From overhead, the wind screams. The flashlight stutters.
For one second, we’re in complete darkness.
And I hate myself for it, but Panic Everly is still at the helm and Thriller Everly’s nowhere to be found, so I reached for him.
It’s just instinct, so don’t get excited, but yes, my hand grabs his shirt, searching for something to anchor to.
The more important part here is…he doesn’t push me away.
The flashlight blinks back on. And suddenly I’m staring up at my childhood nemesis, holding on to him like he’s a hero or something.
And then those ridiculous blue eyes find mine, and they look sure and stable, Mr. Blue Line of defense. And my stupid heart gives a little hitch.
“You good?” he asks.
“What? Me? Yes. I’m great.” I drop his arm and step back, putting a safe slice of distance between us. “I didn’t want you to get spooked is all.”
“Because you’re the thriller writer, and you’re used to this sort of thing.”
“Exactly.” I point at him and wink. Oh brother.
He’s nodding and smiling, and I turn toward the empty mall. There has to be a way out. Please, please, God. “So,” I say. “What do we do now?”
BECKETT
I have exactly zero idea what to say. Because contrary to popular belief, I don’t spend my free time hanging around abandoned malls or meeting strangers (or in this case, childhood enemies wielding camera bags) in the dark.
So this is new to me.
But something about that moment, the flash of black when she reached for me in the dark, sort of short-circuited my brain. And suddenly, it made me want things I’ve never once wanted to do…like wrap Everly Hart in my arms until the lights come back on.
Hello? What’s with that?
I have this terrible fear that Everly broke me.
So…to answer the question What do we do now?
Your guess is as good as mine. But she’s looking at me with those green eyes, the amber light catching her curls, and there’s no way I’m going to let myself say that…
so instead, “Well, first thing, we should probably find you a flashlight.” I glance down at the tiny keychain flashlight I found stuffed in the pocket of my duffel (which I left in the janitor’s closet when I made my escape).
“I’m not sure how long this one will last anyway. ”
Everly nods, a little more hope in her eyes than is good for my brain right now. Get it together, Benson. This isn’t friendship. It’s a truce. Turning, she follows my flashlight to a nearby storefront.
“Huh,” she says.
“What?”
“The gates.” She points. “Look. There’s a glitch in the system.”
I look. And she’s right—not all the security gates are down. About half the stores are shuttered, metal grating pulled to the floor and locked. But the other half are caught in various stages of descent—some halfway down, some a quarter, some barely lowered at all.
“Power must have died mid-shutdown,” she says, and I swear I can hear the gears turning inside her head. “I think I know where we can find flashlights.” She starts down the hall, not waiting for me to catch up. “Come on.”
The gate to Iron & Oak Hardware sits frozen about four feet off the floor. The familiar scent of WD-40 and sawdust wafts from the place, taking me back to summers as a kid, helping my dad out in the garage. Cold concrete in the shade, green grass, Minnesota summers.
Good memories that I’d sort of forgotten.
“After you,” I say, stepping back to let Everly duck under the gate. She gets through easily, and I duck under a moment later.
My flashlight sweeps the interior. Pegboard walls.
Hand tools hanging in neat rows. A duct tape display that’s so extensive it’s a little embarrassing.
And there, at the end of aisle three, a rack of flashlights ranging from “Aww that’s cute” to “That’s not a flashlight.
This is a flashlight.” (You gotta think that last part in an Aussie accent, but I stand by it.)
I grab two of the heavy-duty models—rubberized grip, wide beam, the kind that takes D batteries and could double as a weapon if the evening takes another turn, which, given my track record today, is not outside the realm of possibility.
Everly appears beside me with a four-pack of D batteries in each hand, already ripping the packaging with her teeth.
“Whoa there, tiger. We gotta pay for that first.” I snatch the package from her teeth, adding it to the growing pile in my arms. A pack of emergency candles and a box of matches.
A roll of duct tape—because there are very few things in life that can’t be solved with duct tape.
A utility knife, still in the packaging. A backpack.
Everly looks like I told her my favorite food is black licorice with sauerkraut. “Are you serious right now, Benson?”
I start toward the register. “What?”
I can hear her footsteps padding along behind me. “You never open anything in the store before getting to the checkout?”
I stop flat, cast her a look. “Of course not. Why…do you?”
Everly’s brows rise. “All the time—if I’m one hundred percent certain I’m going to buy it.”
“What if your card gets declined?”
She blinks at me as though the thought had genuinely never occurred to her.
“Whatever, Hart.” I pile everything on the counter next to the register and pull out my wallet.
“Either way, if I manage to survive the night just to get arrested for shoplifting flashlights, Toby will literally fill a clipboard.” I slap sixty dollars on the counter and anchor it under the tape dispenser. “I’m not taking chances.”
She grabs her flashlight from the counter, loading it up with freshly-paid-for batteries. “Who’s Toby?”
I stuff the pile into the backpack and haul it onto my shoulders. “Nobody. Let’s find a way out of here.”