Page 60 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
“Oh, so you’ve seen it?”
I clear my throat. “Oh yeah. I was eight when my dad died. My mom worked nights too. I had a television and a very limited list of channels I was allowed to watch. Adam West just barely made the cut. I watched it religiously, every day after school for years.”
Something shifts between us—a shared connection. Common ground. Something that’s untainted by our history.
For years, we were watching the same show in different lonely rooms on opposite sides of the city.
“Same bat-time?” she says softly.
“Same bat-channel,” I finish.
She holds my gaze a moment and then turns back to the map, pulling it closer so I can see—inviting me into her space.
Something in her scrawled labels catches my eyes. “I don’t know if this matters, but this store”—I tap a store in the far end of the mall—“that’s not a Build-A-Bear anymore.”
Everly frowns. “What?”
“It’s an electronics store. The Build-A-Bear closed a few years ago.” She lifts her head to look at me, all scrunch-nosed. “I thought you mapped this whole place?”
“Well, I did. But I didn’t go down there because it’s a dead end. There are no tunnels on that end because all the walls are exterior.” She pauses, pursing her lips. “I just pulled that wing from memory.”
Then I see it happen—the click, the shift, the exact moment an idea arrives in her writer’s brain—because her eyes go wide and her whole body seems to light up.
“My laptop,” she says.
“What about it?”
“It’s got a built-in LTE. I got the upgraded model because I like to write in places that don’t always have Wi-Fi.” She’s talking faster, words accelerating. “Cell service is down. But LTE uses different bands. If there’s even a fraction of signal—enough for a data packet, not a voice call—I might get a message out. An email. A 911 web portal. Something.”
Listen, I’m trying not to judge, but…“You’ve had a laptop with cellular capability this entire time?”
“It’s dead! I spent the whole evening writing in the arena. The battery is totally drained.”
“Where’s the laptop?”
“Still in the furniture showroom. I left it by the sleeper sofa when we heard the banging.”
“Okay, so new plan?—”
She’s way ahead of me, pen slashing through the previous sketches. “We get the laptop, get the charger, find Cole—hopefully not dead—and get out of here.” She stops scribbling, turning the map toward me, fresh ink gleaming in the light. “The showroom is on the main concourse. There’s no path from the tunnels, not without going out of our way, so?—”
“We move fast. Got it.”
She nods. “Stay on the east side. The emergency lights are out past Blue Line Books—it’s a dead zone, gives us twelve feet of total darkness.”
“You mapped the dead zones.”
“I mapped everything. I am the most prepared unprepared person in this building.”
“That’s going on your tombstone.”
“It is not going on my tombstone, because we are not dying in a mall.” She picks up the hockey stick like she means business. “Let’s go.”
Eleven
Everly
I should be terrified. I am terrified—of three men in this building who want us, and I’m sort of quoting here, “dealt with.” I write the books. I know what that means.
