Page 62 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
“How long have you been camping out at the rink?” Beckett asks.
Cole slumps slightly against the counter, deflated. “A few days. Just…I didn’t think they’d find me here. They’ve been staked out at my apartment. When I realized they knew I’d be here today, that’s when I started compiling the evidence. I have copies hidden in a manila file folder, inside the filing cabinet in Coach Hart’s old office.” He gulps. “The ones on the desk are just a decoy.”
Something catches my peripheral vision.
Through the half-raised gate, across the corridor, a flashlight beam sweeps the concourse. And a second beam appears from the opposite direction. Two beams. Two directions. Converging on us.
“Save it,” I hiss.
Both men turn to me, their argument momentarily forgotten.
“Save. It.” I point. “They’re here.”
Beckett’s face shifts, his anger—however justified—draining. He glances at Cole and back toward the hall. And then that look—determination, cold and calculated, the one I’ve seen a hundred times on the ice. Remind me never to get on his bad side.
“Back room,” I breathe. “Where is it?”
Cole stares blankly.
“For the love, Cole. You’ve been hiding here for hours. Where is the back room?”
Something clicks behind Cole’s eyes, finally catching up. He points to the back of the store. “Behind the—the shelving unit. There’s a door.”
Beckett beats me there, pulling the shelving aside to reveal a door. He yanks it open, and inside is a narrow room. It’s small—a stainless-steel counter, a sink. Two baking-sheet racks. The sweet, cloying smell of sugar and professional-grade vanilla extract. And about three feet of standing room in the middle.
No second door. One way in. One way out.
“In. Now.”
Beckett goes. Cole stumbles. I follow and pull the door shut. Beckett lifts the shelving unit against the door, carrying its weight so the legs don’t scream against tile.
Less than a minute passes, darkness pressing in on every side. We hold our breaths. And then footsteps—measured. Inside the store. The click of a flashlight.
I find Beckett’s arm in the dark and hold on. Pray that whoever’s out there doesn’t go behind the counter, doesn’t find the half-eaten caramel apple.
Beckett’s hand covers mine. Warm and steady. His breath brushes my ear as he pulls me into his protective embrace.
Cole’s breathing is too loud. Ragged. In the silence, it’s a siren.
“Cole,” Beckett whispers. “You gotta calm your breathing. Slow it down. Four counts in. Four counts out. You’re okay.”
It’s the gentlest thing I’ve heard him say to the man who nearly ruined his career. The kindness of it—in this room, after the closet and the framing and six months of lies—does something to my chest that will require significant processing at a later date.
Cole’s breathing slows. Not normal—still too fast—but quiet enough.
The footsteps pause. A flashlight beam sweeps under the door gap—a thin line of white that catches the toe of Beckett’s shoe and the edge of a baking sheet—then travels on and doesn’t stop.
The beam passes. The footsteps resume. We can hear them—the scrape of display cases being checked, something heavy dragged across the counter.
I hold my breath. Beckett holds his. Cole tries—a small, choked sound escapes his nose, and Beckett’s hand moves from mine to Cole’s shoulder. The same squeeze. The same silent promise—I’ve got you. I’m with you.
The footsteps move away. The flashlight beam retreats, the thin line under the door shrinking, dimming, vanishing. Something rattles near the entrance. And then nothing.
Only silence.
I exhale, every ounce of sugar-scented air rushing from my lungs in a breath of relief.
“How many were there?” Beckett whispers.
