Page 53 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
“Papers on the desk. The whole book—names, bets, amounts, dates. Everything.”
“He just left it?”
“Guess he was in a hurry. Idiot left us the evidence and took himself.”
A pause. Then the third voice—quieter. “What about the two at the entrance? The hockey player and the girl?”
“They saw our faces.” The leader. “If they talk to the police, we’ve got a problem.”
“So?”
“Find Thompson first. Deal with the rest after.”
Deal with the rest after.
Everly’s hand curls into my flannel, holding tight. A death grip. A survival grip.
My hand envelopes hers, holding on just as hard. Holding on is the only thing I can do—I can’t fight, I can’t run, I can’t put myself between her and the danger on the other side of a door I can’t open. The play I have is the one where I hold her hand and promise with my grip what I can’t promise with my voice.
One of them walks past our closet. His footsteps vibrate through the door. She stops breathing. I press my mouth to her hair beside her temple.
I exhale the words. “Don’t move.”
He passes. Her breath releases in a controlled, silent stream I feel against my chest.
“He’s not here,” the leader says. “But he’s in this mall somewhere. Let’s move.”
Two sets of footsteps head for the corridor.
One doesn’t.
“I’ll stay. Go through the rest of the files.”
“Fine. Radio if you find something.”
“Radios are spotty. Too much concrete.”
“Then yell.”
The office door stays open. Two sets of footsteps recede. The third man stays—desk chair creaking, papers rustling. Settling in to search with patient thoroughness.
He’s between us and the door. Between us and the corridor. Between us and every exit and every route Everly mapped.
Stuck. Again.
I feel her arriving at the same conclusion. Her body adjusts—not pulling away but settling in. Her forehead drops to my chest, leaning into me. Relying on me. I can feel her heart racing, keeping pace with mine.
I’m hyperaware of every breath between us. The intimacy of it—trapped, hunted, pressed together with a man three feet away who would hurt us—is the most intense thing I’ve ever felt. More intense than any hit on the ice. More intense than the pressure to win. More intense than the elevator.
She tilts her head back a fraction, her lips near my jaw, her breath against my skin short-circuiting every rational thought.
“How long?” she mouths. No sound. Just the shape of words in the darkness of the closet.
How long can we stand here—pressed together, barely breathing—before something gives? Probably it’s too late, if we’re talking about things other than the guy outside the door.
But she’s not, so I mouth back, “As long as it takes.”
Her fingers tighten. Once. The same squeeze from the maintenance room—I’m with you.
