Page 59 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
“Fight three probably-safe-to-assume-they’re-armed men?”
“Well, my hero would have Krav Maga and a conveniently placed fire axe. Standard thriller protocol. Act three, the protagonist reveals a skill set foreshadowed in chapter two and systematically dismantles the opposition in a sequence involving at least one improbable use of the physical environment.”
“That seems convenient.”
“That’s act three, Benson. Convenience is the engine of narrative satisfaction.” She draws a circle on the floor plan. “And then my hero would also deliver a line right before the final confrontation. Something punchy.”
She straightens. Assumes the posture of every action hero in cinematic history.
“‘You came to the wrong mall,’” she says. Deep voice. Full gravitas.
I stare at her.
“Or—‘The only thing getting broken tonight is your business model.’”
“No.”
“‘Ice is my territory. And you’re about to get resurfaced.’”
“That’s objectively the worst thing that’s ever touched my ears.”
She laughs. “Keep it up, Benson. I’ll come up with something even worse for your big moment.”
Her gaze drops back to her notebook, and I step closer, leaning up against the counter beside her. I have some ideas for my big moment.
No, no, I did not say that! Sheesh. “Why thrillers?” I ask. “How does a girl from Minnetonka, who reads Buffy fan fiction, end up writing books about people getting murdered?”
She sets the pen down. Leans against the shelving unit. Less general, more personal. “Lifetime movies,” she says.
“What?”
“After my parents split up, my mom got a job managing a hotel. The Marriott in Edina. She worked nights. After school, I’d take the bus there instead of going home to an empty house.” She shifts, turning slightly to face me. “Mom set me up in the employee breakroom. There was a TV, a couch that smelled like industrial cleaner, and a vending machine that liked to eat quarters. The TV had basic cable, but the remote was missing the channel-up button, so you could only go down and back around. Mostly, I kept it on the Lifetime channel.”
“As in Dance Moms?—”
“As in women in danger who fight back. Women who figure out the conspiracy. Women who get knocked down and get up. Women who solve the puzzle and save themselves.” She shrugs. Casual, yet anything but nonchalant. “The movies are ridiculous. The acting is questionable. But the women are never helpless. They’re scared, outmatched, but they think. They survive.”
“And that’s what you wanted to write.”
“That’s what I wanted to be.” She twirls the pen in her hands. “A twelve-year-old sitting alone in a hotel breakroom watching women survive things—that rewires you.” She looks at me, holding on for a beat, stealing my breath away. Then she turns away, letting out a breath. “Then I found Batman.”
“Batman.”
“Yeah. Adam West. Channel thirty-eight. It was right below Lifetime, so during commercials, I’d just bump down. And then I just stayed.” Her face changes to something I haven’t seen—an unguarded glow. “Same principle. No superpowers. Just preparation, intelligence, and an unwillingness to quit. A utility belt and a plan.”
“And Robin.”
She laughs, her lips curving softly upward. “Well, of course. Every hero needs a Robin. I mean, who else is gonna chime in with ‘Holy homicide, Batman!’?”
She looks at me, smiles.
I want to kiss her again.
The thought arrives with zero warning, a breakaway pass flying right past my defenses. She’s leaning against the counter with her glasses crooked, a pen she seems to have completely forgotten about sticking out of her bun of wild curls. And those lips?—
I know what it’s like to kiss her now, and it’s rewritten everything I thought I knew about my feelings for the coach’s daughter.
I manage to pull my attention away from her lips, her question ringing in my ear.
