Page 73 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
Second—she knows me. As in the me who wrote to her about…well, stuff. The inner places, the secrets. I feel stripped.
And finally (and this is the part that burns the most), she’s known this the entire night we’ve been together. And. Said. Nothing.
So, here I am—feeling naked, furious, and stupid.
I’m…I’m going to be sick.
I look at her, and she glances at the envelope, and her face goes white—instantly, the expression of a person caught with the goods.
“I can explain?—”
I’m about to say something—like How? Or even Save it—when the sound of a papery-fiberglass tile dragging and being dislodged rips through the quiet of the mall, followed by a loud thud as a small piece of aluminum framing crashes to the floor. Cole glances down from the ladder, teeth bared in a grimace. “Oops.”
Oh, I’m going to oops him?—
From the concourse sounds footsteps. Fast. Multiple sets. The crash of Cole’s mistake has carried through the dead building like a siren, and now the men hunting us are on their way.
“Cole, get down!” I hiss.
Cole comes down the ladder fast, bolt cutters clanging. I dive under the gate and back into the mall’s concourse.
The flashlight beams are fifty yards away and closing.
I shove the letter into my jacket pocket, then grab Everly’s hand. Not because I want to. I blame muscle memory and panic, and clearly, the bomb that just went off in my brain hasn’t quite reached my heart.
But it will. Oh, it will, and I need to be away from here and someplace quiet when it does.
So my best option is to shove it away and…run.
We head west, back toward the shadowy arena.
Behind us—Cole’s voice. He’s stopped running. Turned around. And is now facing the hired muscle with the bolt cutters across his body.
“Go!” he says. “They want me. Not you.”
“Cole, don’t?—”
“This is my mess, Benson. Let me clean it up.”
All true. I let him take one for the team.
Everly grabs my arm. “Blue Line Books—go!”
We leave him there and duck inside the bookstore, past the display tables, into the deep stacks where the aisles narrow and the shelves create a maze and a modicum of safety.
We drop behind the back shelves. Footsteps hit the concourse outside. Beams lance past the open gate—white light cutting through the entrance, sweeping the register, the bestsellers. They move on. Fast sweep first. They’ll come back, but right now they’re moving on.
Huh. Where is Cole? Maybe he’s leading them away—a fake puck play.
We wait until our heart rates level out and our breathing steadies.
I let go of her hand. Step back. Put space between us.
It’s almost comical. The sun’s about to rise, and this is the coldest it’s been yet.
“You lied to me,” I say. The words frost the frigid air.
“Beckett, please?—”
