Page 38 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
The gate to Iron & Oak Hardware sits frozen about four feet off the floor. The familiar scent of WD-40 and sawdust wafts from the place, taking me back to summers as a kid, helping my dad out in the garage. Cold concrete in the shade, green grass, Minnesota summers.
Good memories that I’d sort of forgotten.
“After you,” I say, stepping back to let Everly duck under the gate. She gets through easily, and I duck under a moment later.
My flashlight sweeps the interior. Pegboard walls. Hand tools hanging in neat rows. A duct tape display that’s so extensive it’s a little embarrassing. And there, at the end of aisle three, a rack of flashlights ranging from “Aww that’s cute” to “That’s not a flashlight. This is a flashlight.” (You gotta think that last part in an Aussie accent, but I stand by it.)
I grab two of the heavy-duty models—rubberized grip, wide beam, the kind that takes D batteries and could double as a weapon if the evening takes another turn, which, given my track record today, is not outside the realm of possibility. Everly appears beside me with a four-pack of D batteries in each hand, already ripping the packaging with her teeth.
“Whoa there, tiger. We gotta pay for that first.” I snatch the package from her teeth, adding it to the growing pile in my arms. A pack of emergency candles and a box of matches. A roll of duct tape—because there are very few things in life that can’t be solved with duct tape. A utility knife, still in the packaging. A backpack.
Everly looks like I told her my favorite food is black licorice with sauerkraut. “Are you serious right now, Benson?”
I start toward the register. “What?”
I can hear her footsteps padding along behind me. “You never open anything in the store before getting to the checkout?”
I stop flat, cast her a look. “Of course not. Why…do you?”
Everly’s brows rise. “All the time—if I’m one hundred percent certain I’m going to buy it.”
“What if your card gets declined?”
She blinks at me as though the thought had genuinely never occurred to her.
“Whatever, Hart.” I pile everything on the counter next to the register and pull out my wallet. “Either way, if I manage to survive the night just to get arrested for shoplifting flashlights, Toby will literally fill a clipboard.” I slap sixty dollars on the counter and anchor it under the tape dispenser. “I’m not taking chances.”
She grabs her flashlight from the counter, loading it up with freshly-paid-for batteries. “Who’s Toby?”
I stuff the pile into the backpack and haul it onto my shoulders. “Nobody. Let’s find a way out of here.”
Seven
Everly
We try every door in the building. Every single one. Main entrance: chained. Side entrance near the Penalty Box: chained. Loading dock roll-ups: actually padlocked from the outside. Food court emergency exit: frozen shut—the ice has bonded the door to the frame on a molecular level.
Beckett the Defenseman tries a few times to break through the ice, to no avail.
Which leaves the fire exits. Two heavy steel doors with push bars—the kind that are supposed to open no matter what because fire codes exist and people have a general interest in not burning to death.
“Tried these,” I say, leaning up against the wall. “But if you want to try, go ahead and knock yourself out.”
He pushes the bar. The latch clicks, bolt retracting, but the door stays sealed. Frozen.
“See, I told?—”
Beckett slams his shoulder against the door, a loud boom echoing off the walls. He tries again, putting all of his trillion tons of beautiful muscle—so what, I noticed. I mean, I wasn’t going to pick a wimp for my hockey-hero model. Please—and weight against the door.
Again, nothing.
We really are stuck in here.
He steps back, breathing hard.
“Hoo-kay.” I push away from the wall. “Well, all that was really exciting, but I think it’s time to give the door a rest. I don’t think we’re getting out of here anytime soon.”
“That’s not comforting.”
