Chapter 23 The Aesthetic Is Legit for a Murder
AMANDA
The city disappears behind us in a blur of concrete and exhaust fumes.
The farther we go, the thinner the buildings get, and the more open the roads stretch. I have absolutely no idea where we’re going, which should probably concern me more than it does.
But honestly? After the week I’ve had—discovering my AI boyfriend is real, going on a date that left me questioning everything I thought I knew about myself, spending two days in emotional free fall between wanting him desperately and being terrified of that want—being kidnapped by a mysterious motorcycle man feels completely reasonable.
My standards have officially hit rock bottom.
When he finally pulls off the road, I take in our destination and immediately wonder if my life insurance is up to date.
It’s an abandoned shopping mall. Like a full-on apocalyptic movie set. The kind of place that definitely has at least three dead bodies hidden in the back of a Spencer’s.
I slide off the bike and remove my helmet. I immediately regret it as my hair decides to stage a full rebellion against gravity.
“Cool, cool, cool.” I take in the absolute desolation before me as I try to smooth out the flyaways.
“So this is where you murder me? Because I have to say, the aesthetic is legit, but I would have preferred an abandoned amusement park. At least then there’d be roller coasters to make this worth the trip. ”
My phone pings almost immediately.
CHAD
You found me out. But don’t worry, baby doll. I’ll make sure you enjoy it first.
I should argue with that or demand answers.
I should probably call Izzy or drop a pin on my location so the search party knows where to look for me.
But instead, I just huff and adjust my sunglasses as he starts walking toward the entrance, because, as they say, no guts, no glory.
Or maybe in this case, it will be all guts and très gory.
The inside of the mall is exactly as dystopian as I expected. Most of the stores are shuttered behind metal grates, dust so thick on the tile floors that our footprints look like we’re the first humans to set foot in this place since Y2K was an actual concern.
It’s like walking through a museum of dead capitalism, and honestly? Kind of depressing. But then I see it, glowing like a beacon of hope at the far end of the concourse, one place that’s still open.
A movie theater.
The neon sign is half burned-out, flickering like it’s having an existential crisis. The movie posters in the display cases are so faded and yellowed, they look like archaeological artifacts.
I stop, eyeing it suspiciously. “You brought me to what appears to be the last standing Blockbuster-era theater in America? What’s next, are we going to time travel to the Clueless premiere? I should have brought my vintage Chanel tweeds.”
Be patient, baby doll.
“That’s not an answer, Chad. That’s what Lecter said to Starling, and we all know what happened to her.”
He doesn’t acknowledge my very reasonable concerns, just tilts his head slightly before stepping forward and pulling the door open. I follow as if my sense of self-preservation died somewhere around the third glass of wine last night.
Inside, the place is completely empty. No other customers. No visible staff. Just the lingering scent of buttered popcorn and pure nostalgia, like someone bottled the essence of childhood movie nights and left it to ferment.
“Okay, but seriously,” I say, glancing around at the outdated candy displays and carpet that probably hasn’t been cleaned since MySpace was relevant. “Is this a front for a money-laundering operation? Because that would actually explain a lot.”
My phone pings.
Wait here.
Before I can launch into a lecture about the importance of communication in whatever weird relationship dynamic we’ve got going on, he walks off, disappearing down a hallway marked “Employees Only” like he has every right to be there.
So I just stand there, hands on my hips, examining the movie posters for films I watched during sleepovers in middle school, trying not to think about how this whole situation is either incredibly romantic in the Say Anything sense or a more deranged love genre like True Romance.
The jury’s still out on which one.
Then, suddenly, he’s back. And before I can open my mouth to demand an explanation for literally anything that’s happening today, he does something that makes my brain completely malfunction.
He takes my hand.
Oh.
Oh, this is a problem.
His fingers lace through mine—firm, certain, no hesitation whatsoever. It’s casual. Simple. Like we’ve done this a thousand times before.
But I feel it everywhere.
My breath does this weird stuttering thing that’s definitely not cute, and my pulse kicks up like I just mainlined espresso.
I could pull away. I should pull away. Any reasonable person would pull away from the mysterious stranger who brought them to an abandoned mall theater for reasons that are still completely unclear.
I don’t.
Instead, I let him lead me into one of the theaters, my hand warm in his, trying very hard not to think about how right this feels or why that thought makes me want to run screaming into the night.
And sure enough, the theater is empty, too.
But as he leads me up to the middle row, I see something that makes me stop dead in my tracks.
A full spread of movie theater snacks. Popcorn in those classic red-and-white-striped containers, boxes of candy artfully arranged.
I blink at the setup. Then at him.
“You kidnapped me to take me to a run-down theater in the middle of nowhere and… you preordered snacks?”
My phone pings.
Sit down and be patient, baby doll.
I drop into one of the seats. “You know, most people just ask if you want to go to dinner. This whole elaborate mystery man routine is very extra.”
Chad takes the seat next to me, and I’m hyperaware of every movement he makes. He doesn’t let go of my hand immediately, not until I exhale slowly and stop looking like I’m about to bolt for the nearest exit.
When he finally releases me, I immediately miss the warmth of his touch, which I choose not to examine too closely right now. I cross my arms, settling back in my seat, feeling both warm and off-balance.
The trailers start rolling, and immediately something feels off.
The first preview is for some random action movie that came out when I was still in college. The second is a rom-com from the early 2000s that I definitely owned on DVD. The third is an animated film that I’m pretty sure was in theaters during my childhood.
I squint at the screen, then at Chad, my confusion reaching critical mass.
“Are we watching a time capsule of outdated previews? Is this another one of your cryptic communication attempts? Because I have to tell you, the mysterious man bit only works for so long before it becomes genuinely irritating.”
He doesn’t respond verbally, but I see his shoulders shake slightly under his jacket, like he’s laughing at some private joke that I’m not in on.
My phone pings.
You love a little nostalgia, don’t you, baby doll?
I roll my eyes at him. “I love a lot of things, Chad. Explanations. Communication. Men who don’t talk exclusively through text messages when they’re sitting right next to me.”
Are you going to complain throughout the entire movie?
“Depends. Are you going to wear your helmet throughout the entire movie?”
Why, does it turn you on too much?
I make an exaggerated gagging noise that echoes through the empty theater. “Oh my God, I cannot stand you.”
That’s not a no.
I exhale sharply, pretending I don’t feel the warmth creeping up my neck, pretending his stupid, smug confidence isn’t doing things to me that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.
Then, finally, the movie starts.
And I immediately freeze.
Because I know this movie. I don’t just know it—I love it. It’s my favorite. The one I’ve watched approximately seven hundred times and can quote from memory. The opening chords of the score railroad me like a freight train of pure childhood nostalgia.
The Princess Bride.
“You remembered—”
My phone pings before I can finish my thought.
Enjoy the movie, baby doll.
This shouldn’t make my stomach flip. It shouldn’t make my throat go tight. It shouldn’t make me feel anything.
But it does.
Because this movie? This is the one I watched over and over as a kid when life felt too complicated and I needed to believe in something beautiful.
The one I quoted religiously, even when no one around me got the references.
The one that made me believe in true love, and adventure, and the perfect balance of romance and humor.
And now here it is. Playing in an abandoned theater, picked specifically for me by a man whose face I’ve never seen.
I hate it. I hate him. I hate that I love this.
I hate that it feels like he actually sees me.
Chad doesn’t text again. He doesn’t gloat or explain or make some smug comment about how clever he is. Instead, he just wraps an arm around my shoulders, tugging me closer in a movement so smooth and casual it’s like he’s done it a thousand times before.
And then? Then he reaches for the popcorn, grabs a piece, and, without any hesitation whatsoever, holds it up to my lips.
The gesture is so casually intimate, so presumptuous, so perfectly calculated to make me lose my mind, that I want to both bite his finger and open my mouth like a trained seal.
I narrow my eyes at him through the dim light of the theater. “You have some serious audacity.”
He just waits, patient as a saint, that piece of popcorn hovering inches from my mouth.
I huff dramatically, but I open my mouth anyway, letting him feed me.
I chew. Swallow. Refuse to acknowledge the weird, fluttery feeling in my stomach that comes not from the popcorn but because of the way he’s taking care of me.
“Okay,” I say, settling back against his arm. “I hate this. But also… I kind of love it.”
Chad doesn’t respond. But I can feel it—the way he’s watching me instead of the movie, like I’m more interesting than Westley and Buttercup’s epic love story.
And because I like the way it feels to be looked at like that, I let him.
I let myself sink into this moment, into the warmth of his arm around me, into the familiar comfort of my favorite movie playing in the most unexpected place.
Because I’m over running from things that feel good.
Even if I’m afraid of how much they could hurt me.
Even if letting myself feel this means I might become real enough to break again.
But maybe that’s what being alive actually means—choosing to be vulnerable, choosing to let someone matter, even when you know love can leave you shattered on asphalt.
Maybe the broken toys are the only ones who know what it really means to be loved.