Page 52 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
“Should we…?” I leave it up to her.
Everly reaches for the door, turning the handle as quietly as possible.
The office has been lived in. Recently. There’s a sleeping bag unrolled behind the desk. Duffel bag half open, clothes spilling out. Energy bar wrappers—six, maybe eight. A dead burner phone plugged into a wall charger. And on the desk: papers, printouts, spreadsheets—all covered in numbers.
“Someone’s been living here,” I say, my flashlight doing a wide arc over the room.
“For days, at least,” Everly says, already inside, flashlight sweeping, thriller brain no doubt cataloging. “He left in a hurry—duffel open, nothing packed.”
“He probably knew they’d come here.”
“He anticipated it. Relocated.” She looks at me. “So he’s somewhere else in the building.”
A sound echoes from the corridor. Both our flashlights snap off simultaneously.
Footsteps. Multiple sets. Coming from the Staff Only door.
My hand finds Everly’s arm—a directional cue. She retreats deeper into the office, pressing her camera bag against her body to muffle sound. Flashlight beams appear at the far end of the hall. Through the narrow interior window above the desk, I can make out movement. All three of them.
“In here,” I breathe, pulling her toward the only other door in the room—a narrow closet built into the back wall.
Elevators. Broom closets. Now this. Seems like God’s doubling down on whatever it is He’s been trying to tell me. Just once, words might be nice. But…the closet it is.
Small doesn’t cover it. There’s barely enough room for the two of us in the slot between filing cabinets, approximately the square footage of a coffin designed for someone with the physique of Gumby.
“No,” Everly whispers.
“Yes.”
“There’s not enough room.”
“There will be if you want to live. Get in.”
I pull her into the closet, one arm around her as we wedge into the slot. The door shuts behind me, the latch catching with a click so soft I feel it more than hear it.
A moment later, we hear them. Footsteps just outside the office door.
We hold our breaths—which is saying something, because there was hardly space to breathe in the first place.
The two of us are packed so tight, you’d need a crowbar to get us free. Everly faces me, her arms pinned between us, hands on my chest. Her forehead hovers near my lips. Her hair—the copper chaos—brushes my cheek, and the vanilla hits like a drug administered directly through my nostrils.
My right arm has nowhere to go except around her, across the small of her back. My hand lands on her hip. Not by choice. By architecture. My other hand cups her shoulder, steadying us.
The office door opens. Flashlight beams lance through the gap under the closet door.
“He was here.” The leader’s voice. “Sleeping bag. Food. Looks like he’s been camping.”
Sounds of the duffel being unzipped. Papers shuffled. Drawers opened.
Everly is shaking. A fine, continuous tremor—cold, fear, adrenaline. It’s a lethal mix. My arm tightens around her. My thumb brushes her shoulder, willing calm, even breaths. In. Out. In.
It’s okay. We’re okay.
She goes still. The trembling slows—not stops, but recedes. Her body settles against mine. One millimeter. A shift so small, I’d blame it on gravity if it weren’t for her hand splayed across my heart. I know she can feel it racing.
Um, Coach’s daughter there, Beckett.
I don’t care. The thought arrives with quiet, devastating certainty. I care that she’s shaking in the dark. I care that my arm around her made it stop. Mostly.
