Page 42 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
I look at it. It’s small. Then she adds, “Find me a way out of this building by morning, and I’ll think about extending it.”
Something clicks. The drop of a puck. A challenge.
I’m no longer that kid who hurt her on the worst day of her life. And by the time I get her out of this building, she’s going to see it.
I take her hand. “Challenge accepted.”
Eight
Everly
Hearthstone Home & Living is open. Gate fully up, power having died before shutdown reached this end. Flashlight beams sweep staged rooms like spotlights at an empty theater—a farmhouse kitchen that doesn’t cook, a mid-century living room never lived in, a bedroom display with a queen bed and approximately nine decorative pillows that have never been slept on.
“Most depressing Airbnb I’ve ever seen,” Beckett says.
“Great location. No heat. No power. Occasional criminals. Four stars.”
Beckett wanders to the bedroom display. A fake window overlooks a rolling vineyard. “At least the bed looks comfy.”
I scoff. Apparently he’s never been inside a store like this before. Go ahead, champ. Give it a try.
He hops up onto bed and…thump.
“It’s fake!” He yanks back the blankets in disbelief, as though just realizing that this whole store is a facade and not, in fact, a cozy bed and breakfast in the countryside. Thank you, Captain Obvious. It’s fake.
“Mattresses are expensive. Heavy-duty cardboard—real cheap.” I rap two knuckles on the bed nearest me.
“Well, that’s just…fantastic. I suppose it’s too much to hope that the couches are real.”
“I think you’re in luck.”
There’s a whole arsenal of comfy seating to choose from. Two love seats. A few armchairs, a fluffy sectional, and one full-size couch. Beckett gives one of the love seats a quick test—bounces twice, shakes his head. Tries the armchair—too narrow. Then a sleeper sofa that unfolds into a full mattress. “Dibs.”
“What are we, twelve?” I say, rolling my eyes. “You can have the pull-out, Benson. I’ll take the sectional.” I set the bakery bag on a coffee table and drop my bags on my sofa. “But for the record, I’ve got dibs on the flannel bed set.” I gesture toward another one of the bedroom displays. “You can take that hideous paisley set.”
“Wow, thanks.” He says it with a straight face—all except that little tug at the corner of his lips. “You’re a real saint.”
“I do what I can.”
We set up the flashlights on the coffee table, pointed at the ceiling, and get to work setting up our beds for the night. I scrounge together a collection of Christmas bedding from the clearance section, snag a few pillows, a throw blanket, and the flannel sheets off the back wall. By the time I’m done nesting, I’ve got a bed suitable for a Hallmark movie marathon. I pick out a few doughnuts and nestle in.
“Well, don’t you look cozy,” Beckett says, arms piled high with a green-and-white quilted comforter and other assorted bedding. He tosses it all down on the pull-out and gets to work setting up his own camp.
We settle in. Nestled five feet apart, wrapped in fleece blankets, eating the last doughnuts by flashlight while a blizzard tries to eat the building.
“So,” I say, “you ready to tell me why you were locked in a closet by your teammate?”
“Cole Thompson. And not especially.” His eyes zero in on the doughnut he’s working on, the dim glow of the flashlight painting deep shadows across his face—his jaw, stubble, the line of his nose. It’s clearly been broken at least once. It only adds to his appeal.
Wait—did I say that? Oh no.
I wait, let the silence do the work for me.
He lets out a sigh. “I think he might be in trouble. I was trying to help.”
Of course, the thriller author in me perks up at the word trouble. “What do you mean?”
Beckett picks at the doughnut, pulling it apart without eating it. “I noticed it a few months back—he’s been acting different. Nervous. Tired. I saw him earlier this week talking to these guys.” His eyes connect with mine across the coffee table. “They didn’t look friendly.”
