Chapter 13
Thirteen
Everly
And just like that, whatever crack had been mended between Beckett Benson and me, whatever this was blooming between us, is gone. Shattered in the romance section of Blue Line Books.
My chest feels like it’s going to cave in, and for the first time in this long, horrible night, I’m thankful for the dark.
Because I can’t stand the idea that he’s not entirely wrong.
I did know. I did keep the secret. I did carry his letter next to my manuscript notes, and the distance between “treasured” and “used” is a line I drew in my own heart and never showed anyone else.
From where he’s sitting—back against the crime-fiction wall, eyes closed—the line doesn’t exist.
I just wish the lie and the love weren’t in the same envelope.
From somewhere in the building, distant, carried through the ductwork, comes the sound of voices.
I go completely still. Hold my breath. Listen.
The words come in fragments:
“…Thompson got away…”
“…doesn’t matter. When we destroy the paperwork, he’ll have nothing to fall back on. He’s dead in the water.”
“What about the other two?”
“We’ll weed them out…”
There’s a heavy pause, brief and deliberate.
“Torch it.”
Wait—what?
“A building like this, plenty of faulty old wiring. No one will think twice. Park by the north entrance. If they don’t come out on their own, let the fire have them.”
My blood goes cold. They’re going to burn the building. Sutton Arena. Blake’s Café. The rink where my father taught me to skate. The bench with our names etched into the wood. The office where his nameplate is still on the wall. Where Beckett’s father played.
They’re going to burn it to the ground.
“Beckett. Open your eyes.”
Something in my tone gets through. He opens his eyes, his gaze bone weary, his whole frame exhausted.
“They’re torching the building. With us inside!”
He’s on his feet in one second.
“We have to go—”
His hand curls around my arm, pulling me to my feet. But something snags in my mind, keeps me from moving.
“We can’t go—not yet,” I say. “The real paperwork—not what Cole planted on the desk as a decoy, but the actual evidence they took—could take down the entire gambling ring. If the building burns, the evidence burns. And Cole’s as good as dead.”
I should mention here that I should have argued with Cole, but there wasn’t any time.
And a part of me thought, yep, that would make for a spectacular redemptive end to a hero in a novel.
This is the problem. Novels are not real life.
I need to tattoo that on my forehead or something.
Novels are not real life, and you can’t lie and expect the world not to implode.
“We need to find Cole,” I tell him.
“What do you suggest?” Beckett says. He slides the backpack from his shoulder, pulls out my notebook, and hands it over. Seems as if he’s reverted to game mode or something. Cold. Resolute. Focused on the goal.
Fine. Me too. But my heart is pinned onto the implicit meaning behind the words everything else waits. Which means this isn’t over. Please.
And yes, I’m aware of how far things have flipped since I walked into this mall hours ago. So sue me—my three selves are finally talking, and someone has suggested that maybe I’ve had a love-hate thing with Beckett for a long, long time.
Not that I’m copping to that. But I’m not so blind that I can’t see that truth (conveniently tacked to the bulletin board of creative ideas in my office).
Our escape-slash-rescue plan takes shape in layers.
“We need to separate them. The group is a wall we can’t breach. But two and one—that’s manageable.”
“The Penalty Box corridor,” Beckett says.
He’s reading the floor plan over my shoulder—close enough that I can smell the dust in his hair, far enough that the distance is a statement.
“They’ve got the equipment rental on the far end of the shop.
It’s a single-entry checkpoint. One way in, one way out, and every surface is covered in gear. ”
I look at him. “How much gear?”
Something flickers across his face—the ghost of a reaction that in other circumstances might be amusement. “It’s a hockey complex in Minnesota. There are probably a couple dozen helmets, at least a wall of sticks, and enough skates to outfit an entire roster twice over.”
“What about pucks?”
“Hundreds. Full case of practice pucks in the back. Maybe three hundred.”
“Any chance you know how to rig a trip wire?” I say, a plan already coming together.
“Why?”
“What if we create one? One of us could lure them behind the rental desk—there’s all those shelves, all that equipment. We loosen a few screws, attach a few strings, and when they get close enough, boom! Send a barrage of pucks and gear down on them.”
“Oh.” Beckett is looking at me like I’m an evil genius. “And what about the other guy?”
“I think I saw some bear spray back at base camp.”
“So how are we going to lure them there?”
I don’t want to tell him because, well, he’s still Blue Line Beckett. He’ll say no. So instead…“Trust me.”
He narrows his eyes.
Okay, so I’ll let you in on it. I am fully planning to be bait. Feels right. Heroic, and maybe even redemptive—he can see I’m not the selfish jerk who lied to him.
Okay, okay, I see the flaw in my plan, but it’s better than him being the bait, right? Someone needs to take out the bad guys.
He’s about to argue with me when, right then, guess who shows up? Cole. Sliding under the Blue Line Books gate, rolling in as if he’s an action hero, breathing hard.
“What are you doing here?” Beckett says, grabbing him and pulling him behind a bookcase.
“I think I lost them,” he says.
Beckett’s mouth makes a grim line. Yep, I’m thinking the same thing.
“We need to get moving,” I say.
“Where?” Cole asks. And since he did a brave thing, I tell him the plan. Except then he asks the obvious. “How are you going to lure them down the hall?”
Silence, and I’m busted.
“Not on your life,” Beckett says. He turns to Cole. “You’ll be the bait.”
Cole swallows. Nods. And there goes my heroic moment.
But maybe, if I’m honest, I’m okay with that.
“This could work,” Beckett says, his mouth a grim slash.
“It has to work. Otherwise, we’re trapped in a furnace.”
Cole’s eyes widen. “What?”
“Later,” Beckett says. “Let’s get moving.”
We split up. Not emotionally—we’re already split emotionally, the canyon between us wide enough for its own zip code.
Tactically. Beckett and Cole create a trap inside the Penalty Box, a web of fishing wire—nabbed from the camping store while I was grabbing the bear spray—attached to the rows and rows of racks behind the rental counter.
My role in all of this, of course, is to get to the office and grab the evidence, still hidden in the file cabinet where Cole left it. Easy peasy.
We reconvene in the Penalty Box. Dawn is approaching, gray light bleeding through the snowy skylights.
We make our way from the Penalty Box to the bookstore. Cole is pacing. He looks about ready to pass out.
I don’t blame him. Escaping once is luck. Twice…well, this might go south.
Beckett leans against a bookshelf, his gaze fixed on the door. It’s almost time.
I can’t let another seventeen years go by…
“Beckett. About the book—”
He doesn’t look at me. “Not now.”
“But I need you to—”
“I said not now, Everly.”
The words hit me like a spray of ice, sharp and cold. Fine, then. Later.
Except standing here, with morning barely a hint in the sky, I know there won’t be a later. What happened in the dark will stay in the dark.
And for the first time, I desperately want to tell him that I was wrong about him.
I’ve been wrong about Beckett Benson at every major juncture of my life.
Wrong at eleven. Wrong at thirteen. And I’m so hoping I’m wrong again now.
I need the man who chose to stay and rescue his teammate to also be the man who can choose to stay and hear me instead of running.
But I’m not going to shout the words, I’m not going to twist his arm. If he doesn’t want to try, I won’t wait around wishing he’d want me. I’ve been there, done that.
I glance at my watch. “It’s time.”
BECKETT
This might be our worst idea yet.
“Hey!” Cole’s voice rings through the cavernous halls of the mall. “I’m getting sick of hiding! I’m right here!”
A loud clang chases his voice as he pounds his bolt cutters against the metal grate of a half-shuttered shop.
Cole stands beside me in the dead center of the main corridor, his set of bolt cutters like an extra-long zombie arm.
His other hand holds a walkie-talkie, another goodie from the basecamp shop that Everly grabbed (and probably didn’t leave an IOU note for—I’ll fix that later), and he’s got this unhinged look to him. Like this is it, he’s reached the end.
“Listen, Cole, are you sure you want to—”
“Come on! Come get me!” he shouts again.
Well, alrighty then—there’s no turning back now.
Three flashlight beams snap around the corner, a matching set of footsteps accelerating. Well, we got all three of them on the first try—maybe God is on our side.
We turn and run.
Not away but into the plan. We pound down the east corridor together, our footsteps loud and deliberate, the thunder of men who want to be followed. Ten feet behind us, the thugs give chase—all three of them, the momentum of twelve hours of searching finally finding a direction to go.
“See you on the other side, Benson,” Cole says, his voice steady—steadier than I’ve heard it all night—a grin sliding across his face.
“See you there,” I say as we approach the junction. Cole peels left—toward the Penalty Box. He doesn’t look back. Neither do I.
I go right. Toward the food court. Toward the open space and the leftover scent of grease, Cinnabon, and pretzels.
Two of the thugs follow Cole. One follows me.
The leader.