Chapter 9
Nine
Everly
I bolt upright, my heart leaping to my throat. “What was that?”
Beckett is sitting up beside me as it sounds again—from somewhere deep inside the building. It’s not the wind. And it’s not settling. I can hear it clearly now—metallic—a bang, then a scrape and another bang.
Weirdly, all I can think is Jurassic Park, and I want to say It’s in the building.
But I don’t, because that would be weird. And confusing.
Thankfully, Beckett isn’t as movie obsessed and is already on his feet, grabbing the flashlight. “I don’t know. You stay here.”
“As if.” I scramble across the bed, shoving my feet into my boots as fast as possible. “Like I’d really stay here while you go out looking for trouble. No way.”
I don’t need the flashlight to see Beckett rolling his eyes at me. I can feel it.
Let him scowl. I pop to my feet, grab my camera bag, and square up in front of him. “Let’s go.”
He eyes me for a second, then shakes his head and says, “Stay behind me.”
That command, I’ll obey. For now.
It’s strange, being back in the halls with the flashlight cutting through the amber glow. For one, it’s a lot colder. But also, it feels…vulnerable. Wide open. I’d finally managed to put my defenses down, let myself feel safe knowing he was there beside me.
I don’t know what I was thinking, reaching for his hand like that.
It wasn’t premeditated. There was no tactical calculation, no romantic plot structure guiding my fingers over his hand in the dark. It just happened. The way a sentence appears on the page before your brain can approve it. By the time you realize what you’ve written, it’s already true.
Luckily, it seems Beckett is adopting a “what happened in the furniture store stays in the furniture store” mentality. If I’m really lucky, the sun will rise in the morning, we’ll go our separate ways, and we’ll never speak again about the things we said in the dark.
The banging at the main entrance is getting louder. See, it’s a T. rex, trying to get in. I knew it.
“Maybe it’s someone coming to help us,” Beckett says.
Oh, yes. That’s a much better option. Too bad he sounds like he was trying for optimistic and just…missed.
I try too. “Maybe…” Also a miss.
We round the corner into the main atrium.
The glass entrance doors are thirty feet ahead—chains on the outside being worked with bolt cutters by three silhouettes through the snow-crusted glass.
The chains fall—metal hitting concrete, the sharp ring of cascading links.
The doors push open under the weight of wind.
Cold air rushes through before the doors even open.
Three men step through. Heavy boots, dark jackets, flashlight beams sweeping the atrium in practiced grid patterns.
“Hello? Anyone in here?”
Beckett steps forward. “Yeah—we got locked in during the evacuation. Two of us.”
Relief floods his voice. He starts toward them.
I don’t move.
Because something about them is off…
The gear is wrong. First responders wear department-issued gear—reflective striping, patches, ID badges, standardized equipment. I’ve interviewed firefighters for two novels. I know what a real emergency response looks like, and this ain’t it, baby.
These men are wearing nondescript dark jackets. No department markings. No reflective tape. No helmets, no radios, no insignia. The flashlights are tactical grade but civilian. And there’s something about the way they’re sweeping the building—it’s aggressive and methodical.
“Beckett.” I grab his sleeve. Tug. “Those aren’t first responders.”
“They just cut the chains—”
“Look what they’re wearing,” I hiss. “No patches. No reflective gear. No radio or badges.” My fingers tighten on his sleeve. “I’ve got a bad feeling about these guys.”
He opens his mouth to argue when the leader’s flashlight beam swings toward us. “Hey—you two okay? Stuck in here?”
“Yeah,” Beckett says, although he sounds careful now, my warning working through his system, cracking the shell of relief. “Got stuck during the evacuation.”
“Rough night.” The leader walks toward us. Casual. Unhurried. The posture of a man who wants you to feel comfortable before he slits your throat. Where is a T. rex when I need one? “Anyone else in here? We got a report of people trapped.”
“Just us,” Beckett says.
“You sure?” the man says. Light. But underneath—the way a knife hides under a napkin—is something pointed. “We got information that someone else might have been here today. Cole Thompson? He’s one of the hockey players who was here today.”
Beckett’s face goes white.
The leader catches the change, and his expression shifts, eyes narrowing. “You know him?”
“Yeah. He’s on my team,” Beckett says. His voice has gone flat. “I saw him at the event. He left.”
“His car’s here. It’s buried under the snow.”
“Maybe he got a ride.”
The leader smiles. The kind that doesn’t reach the eyes—the kind I’ve written on a dozen or more villains and never wanted to see aimed in my direction.
“You mind if we look around?”
“Help yourself.”
The leader turns to call to his men—
And Beckett’s hand closes around mine. Not gently. Not romantically. The hard, decisive grip of a man who has assessed and made a choice.
He flicks off the flashlight.
“Go,” he breathes. “Now.”
We take off. Not toward the entrance but back into the dark corridor behind us.
“Hey!” The leader’s voice echoes, all traces of warmth gone. The napkin’s been pulled. “Stop!”
I take the lead. Not because I’m faster—Beckett’s legs are approximately twice the length of mine—but because I know this building. Every corridor, every dead zone, every blind spot.
“Left,” I hiss. We bank left at the T junction near the food court—the same junction Helen told me about just this morning. “There! Go!”
Through the Staff Only door. It’s a narrow corridor, cinderblock walls, the smell of cleaning solution permeating the air. Our footsteps slap linoleum. Behind us, the door bangs open—heavier, faster footsteps.
We’re running through an abandoned building. See, I am in a Jurassic Park movie.
“Right.” Right turn at the electrical panels. Past the loading docks. Down a side corridor to a maintenance room with a door that locks from the inside.
We duck through. Beckett pulls the door shut and slams the bolt.
The darkness swallows us whole.
My back is pressed to the door with Beckett standing close, his free hand braced over my shoulder. We stifle our breaths. Keep quiet. Try to listen over the pounding of adrenaline in our ears. His hand still holding mine—or mine holding his, I’ve lost track.
Footsteps. Heavy. Fast. They go past our door and continue down the corridor. I pull up the mental layout—I think there are six doors in this hallway. They started at the far end.
We should have a few minutes.
“You were right,” Beckett whispers, his breath warm against my forehead. We’re pressed into a space that smells like motor oil and cleaning chemicals. “I should have listened.”
“Never mind that now. Do you think those are the guys Cole was running from?”
“I don’t think they were trying to reach him about his car’s extended warranty.”
Above us—a ventilation grate. Large, rectangular, connecting to ductwork throughout the building. And carried along by the metal conduit like a telephone made of tin cans—voices.
I hold up one finger. Listen.
“—can’t find him in the stores. He’s not in the main concourse.”
“Check the rink offices.”
“What about the other two?”
“They’re not a priority. Thompson is. He owes three hundred grand, and he’s been dodging two months. Boss says if he doesn’t pay or throw the next three games, we make an example.”
“What kind of example?”
“The kind that convinces the next guy to pay on time.”
Silence. Then, “What if his teammate and his friend get in the way?”
“Then they get in the way.”
The voices fade. The maintenance room is silent except for breathing and the hum of dead infrastructure.
All right, yes, I’m putting together the pieces. “Sports betting,” I whisper. “Cole’s in debt to a gambling ring. Those are hired muscle.”
“Three hundred thousand.” Beckett’s voice is hollow. “And throw three games. That’s season altering. That gets the entire organization investigated.”
“That’s the kind of thing people kill over.”
Oops. Because now the word kill hangs between us.
“We need to get out,” he says.
“What about Cole?” I say.
The question surprises us both. His head turns in the dark.
“He’s not exactly my priority right now, Everly.”
“I know. But those men are going to hurt him.”
He goes quiet—but I can hear his thoughts battling inside him.
“He’s a terrible person,” Beckett says.
“He might be.”
“I owe him nothing.”
“Also true.”
Our time is dwindling. Several rooms down, I can hear the intruders tossing furniture and slamming doors.
I squeeze his hand. Once. Brief. Deliberate. “If you want to go after him, I’m with you, Beckett.”
“Wait. You were the one who wanted to go after him.”
“Okay, fine, then are you with me?”
He exhales. Long. The exhale of a man making a decision he knows will cost him. He drops my hand—steps back slightly.
And yes, I hate that. I hate that I hate that too, so it’s getting loud in my head. I know, I’m confusing!
Finally, he says, “We find Cole before they do. Get to the entrance. All three of us.”
“That’s a terrible plan. It’s the only way out—they’ll have someone waiting for him.”
“You’re the thriller expert. Make it better.”
I reach up, click on the flashlight in Beckett’s hand. He cups the light so it doesn’t bleed under the door. I pull out my Moleskine notebook.
“You carry a notebook?”
“Of course I do. I’m a writer.”
“I don’t carry a hockey stick. Or a puck.”
“Maybe you should. A puck would come in really handy right now.”