“No problem.”
Sandi was still at the front of the room. On her knees, peering outside through a three-inch gap between the flipped table and the window frame. “Ashley and Lars just moved again,” she said. “They’re . . . they’re by their van now.”
“Doing what?”
“I can’t tell.”
“Keep your head down,” Ed reminded her.
“It’s fine.”
Darby opened the last drawer below the cash register, and found something rattling on the bottom with pens and receipt paper — a silver key. She picked it up, peeling off another Post-It note: DON’T DUPLICATE — TODD.
The closet, she remembered.
She raced to it, inserting the key, twisting the knob. “Please, please, God, let there be a phone in here—”
Darkness inside. She thumbed a light switch — revealing a small janitor’s closet, five feet by five, with crooked shelving and racks of saggy cardboard boxes. The stuffy odor of mildew. A mop bucket in the corner, sloshing with gray water. And a white first-aid box on the upper shelf, filmed with dust.
And, to her left, bolted to the wall . . . a beige landline telephone.
“Oh, thank God—”
She grabbed the plastic receiver and mashed it to her ear — no dial tone. She tried pressing buttons. Shook it. Checked the spiral cord. Nothing.
“Any luck?” Ed asked.
She noticed another Post-It note on the wall — FIBER LINE DOWN AGAIN — TODD — and slammed the phone down. “I’m really starting to hate Todd.”
“Hot water’s full,” Jay called out.
Darby backpedaled out of the closet, nearly bumping into Ed, and grabbed the carafe off the drip tray. “Thanks, Jay. Now fill another, please.”
“Okay.”
Then she carried the sloshing carafe to the visitor center’s front door, feeling the steam on her palm. The water was hot enough to burn skin, and to maybe temporarily blind an attacker. But it was also rapidly cooling. In a few minutes, it would just be a harmless jug of warm water.
She was halfway there when she noticed something — a brown napkin crammed under the carafe’s silver carrying handle.
Her napkin.
She halted and unfolded it. On one side, her MEET ME IN THE RESTROOM and Ashley’s probably-false response: I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND. On the other, IF YOU TELL THEM I KILL THEM BOTH. And finally, underneath that, in the loopy handwriting of a child, she found Jay’s message to her.
DON’T TRUST THEM.
What?
She glanced up. Jay was filling the second carafe now, holding the red button, but watching her expectantly.
Darby whispered, “Don’t . . . don’t trust who?”
Ed and Sandi?
Jay didn’t answer. She just nodded her head in short motions. Concealing the gesture from the other two adults in the room.
Darby almost asked aloud, but couldn’t.
Why? Why can’t we trust Ed and—
A rough hand clapped down on her collarbone, startling her. “Three entrances, so three possible routes of attack for Beavis and Butthead,” Ed huffed, counting on his fingers. “Front door.”
“Deadbolted,” Darby said.
“Front window.”
“Barricaded.”
“Restroom windows?”
“There’s two. I broke one of them, earlier tonight, to climb inside.” She felt her shoulders sag. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
She wasn’t just worried; she was now certain — that was the route Ashley and Lars would try first. The stacked picnic tables outside formed a stairway up to the broken men’s restroom window. It was another structural weakness, and Ashley was acutely aware of its existence. It had saved Darby’s life twice tonight.
Ed was still considering this, and again, she whiffed that odor on his breath — vodka, or gin, maybe. Please, she thought. Please, don’t be drunk.
“Can they fit through it?” he asked.
“They’ll try.”
“We don’t have much to block it with—”
“Maybe . . .” Darby considered this, eyeing the lug wrench in Ed’s hand. She remembered Sandi’s pepper spray, plus the carafes of scalding water. She dashed to the restrooms, her mind racing: “Maybe we’ll use that to our advantage.”
“How so?”
She elbowed open the door and pointed down the long room, past the green stalls, at the empty triangular window on the far wall. “Ashley and Lars will have to crawl through, one at a time, to get inside to us. They can’t go feet-first. They’ll have to go head-first, so they can cover the room with their gun, and then they’ll have to twist around and drop down to land on their feet.”
Ed looked at her, impressed. “And you climbed that?”
“Here’s my plan. One of us will . . .” Darby halted, remembering her conversation in this very same restroom, under the same buzzing lights, with Ashley himself. Two hours ago, they’d bickered over who would be Person A (the attacker) and who would be Person B (the backup). From now on tonight, she decided with a held breath, I’m Person A.
No more excuses.
“Dara?”
“I’ll squish flat against the wall,” she continued, pointing at the furthest stall. “Right in that corner there, and they won’t see me when they climb inside, and—”
Ed grinned. “We can pepper spray him.”
“And take his gun.”
And kill them both.
The brothers were armed and physically stronger, so allowing one or both of them inside would be fatal. But this window was a natural bottleneck, and it would be their only realistic route inside, unless they managed to break the deadbolt or get through the barricaded window. And, Darby knew, if Ashley entered first with the gun, she’d stand a half-decent chance of overpowering him with pepper spray or scalding water. If she managed to steal their .45, it’d be a game changer.
Ed opened the stall door. “I’ll guard the window.”
“No. I’m doing this.”
“Dara, it should be me—”
“I said I’m doing it,” she snapped. “I’m the only one small enough to hide here. And I’m the one who started this.”
And I’ll never be Person B again.
For as long as I live.
She’d expected more of an argument, but Ed only stared. She’d also almost corrected him about her name, once and for all. But she didn’t, because hell, tonight, Dara was close enough. And she was grateful she didn’t have to mention the alcohol on his breath.
Maybe . . . maybe that’s why Jay doesn’t trust you?
He paused. “So, you were the one who found Jay?”
“Yeah. I got her out.”
“And they’d been traveling with her? Parked outside, right under our noses, while I played Go Fish with the dirtbag?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus Christ. You’re . . . you know you’re a hero, Dara—”
“Not yet.” She winced, looking at the floor, fighting a sickly chill. Hour by hour, she’d grown to loathe that word. “And not even close. Not if I get you and your cousin killed tonight—”
“You won’t,” Ed said. “Hey. Look at me.”
Reluctantly, she did.
“Some words of wisdom for you,” he said. “Do you know the first thing they tell you in the Clairmont rehab center? When you first walk through those doors, and check in your items, and sign all the intake forms, and sit down?”
She shook her head.