Four found dead, p.1
Four Found Dead, page 1
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2023 by Natalie D. Richards
Cover and internal design © 2023 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Kerri Resnick
Cover images © nikenai/iStock, Arsgera/Shutterstock, Chipmunk131/Shutterstock
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567–4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress.
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknolwedgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To Tiffany
Wishing you all the light and goodness this world can hold
FOUR FOUND DEAD IN APPARENT MALL KILLING SPREE
SANDUSKY, Ohio (AP)—April 8, 2023. Three teens and one adult were found dead after a nine-hour entrapment in the former Riverview Fashionplace shopping mall. Details of the evening are still under investigation. The Sandusky Police Department provided no comment at this time.
I spend a lot of time thinking how that night was supposed to go. We were going to thank the customers who watched the last movie. We would eat one last handful of popcorn and lock the doors for a final time. Then we’d caravan to the IHOP for pancakes and stories and memories.
Now I just want to forget.
Who’d want to remember the night half of us died?
Chapter 1
I’ll never lock these doors again. Maybe that’s why I linger at the thick glass, watching the stragglers make their way through the parking lot. They file to their vehicles in pairs and threesomes. Headlights bloom to life; cars reverse and dart. It’s an abstract automotive ballet snaking toward the exits. I’ve watched this routine unfold every Saturday night for three years, but this time is different. Maybe the last time is always different.
I turn away from the bank of doors and grab the broom. Another ballet is about to begin. Lexi and I handle the lobby when we close. We move front to back, starting at the doors—eight sets in total—and work our way past the ticket booths and finally to the concession counters. The concessions are a big job, so we wind up doing half of that too, but tonight, there’s no restocking or straightening. It’s all being packed up and prepped for auction.
Closing cleanup has always sucked, but tonight has a few silver linings.
I’ll never sweep this floor again.
I’ll never scrape gum off the side of this trash can again either.
I’ll never clean the popcorn bins or count the candy or mop the back floors.
Across from me, Lexi is rolling up the giant rugs that stretch from the lobby doors to the place where the blue carpet begins. Blue except for the occasional bursts of orange squares and yellow triangles trailing out in random directions. Maybe it’s a rule that movie theater carpet has to look like a fever dream after a high school geometry test.
“Trash is done,” Hudson says.
He’s emerging from the theater hallway with Hannah. Both are dragging four trash bags, and they heap them next to the front doors. Hannah winds up her arm with the last, smallest bag, like she’s ready to take a pitch. And since she currently pitches on an elite women’s softball team, she’d know how to do it.
“Put it in the net!” Hudson says, drumming his hands on his thighs.
“You really need to learn your softball jargon.” Hannah laughs. But she tosses her no-nonsense ponytail behind her back and lets the throw rip. The bag lands dead center on top of the heap, the cherry on a sundae of trash.
“Goal!” Hudson cheers, waving his long arms.
Hannah snorts. “How many sports can you jack up in one conversation?”
But Hudson just shakes his streaked hair back and forth and runs in a wild circle, whooping, until we’re all laughing.
“Hey!” The shout is deep and shocking and all too familiar.
Hudson’s hands drop. Hannah’s smile vanishes. And my stomach clenches. The whole mood sours in an instant. Clayton always seems to have that effect.
Are we in big trouble?
It’s almost ten years since that day, but my sister’s words still echo back to me when I’m afraid. And Clayton is very good at making me afraid.
He’s watching us from behind the concession counter. He’d say it’s his job as a manager to keep us in line, but I think Clayton just loves proving he’s in charge. I don’t know what lured him out of the office where he usually festers, but something has, and now he’s found his favorite thing on earth—a reason to be pissed off. He crosses his thick arms over his chest and pushes his shoulders wide. I swear he stands like this to prove he’s the biggest and strongest of the bunch. Or maybe so we know he could hurt us if he wanted.
“Sorry about that,” Lexi says, tapping her shiny nails against her broom handle. “They’re just goofing off. Last night and all.”
“Maybe they should focus up,” Clayton says, his eyes locked on Hudson. “Some of us have shit to do tonight.”
“Like steroids?” Hudson mumbles. Hannah stifles a laugh.
“What did you say to me?” Clayton asks. There’s something different in the tone he uses.
Then he moves around the concession counter and starts toward us. That’s different too.
“What did you say?” he repeats, and there’s something about his face that feels… I can’t put my finger on what I’m seeing, but my body knows. Adrenaline rushes through my veins, tensing my muscles and sharpening my senses.
I take a breath and remind myself this isn’t a life-or-death matter. It’s just a pissed-off manager that we have to put up with a little longer. Even if Clayton is even creepier than usual right now, I am almost done with this place. Done with him.
“Tell me what he said,” Clayton says.
“Nothing,” Hannah says. “He didn’t say anything.”
“No, I think he did. Didn’t you, Hudson?” Clayton’s voice is low and dangerous. And he is still stalking forward, his blond hair flipped casually out of his eyes.
Clayton’s toothpaste-ad good looks always feel like a lie. That innocuous soccer-player hair and aw-shucks smile do not belong on someone so menacing. But usually, he stops at menacing. Tonight, he’s still walking toward us. Tonight, glaring isn’t enough.
My palms prickle with sweat because this isn’t how this game goes. Clayton bitches, flexes, and struts around but keeps his distance. Lexi says his bark is worse than his bite, and she’s always been right. Is she still right?
Are we in big trouble?
It’s almost like I can feel Cara’s frantic whisper against my neck again. I go very still like I did that day all those years ago, watching and waiting for whatever this is to pass.
“What should we focus on when we’re done with the lobby?” Lexi asks. She’s trying to distract him, but Clayton isn’t budging. He’s almost to the ticket booths. Hudson is watching him with his chin cocked and his foot tapping wildly. He’s probably expecting Clayton to get bored, to say something snarky and move on.
&nbs p; But Clayton isn’t moving on.
What the hell is he doing? What the hell is he going to do?
He passes Lexi, and in two steps he will move within arm’s length of me. I need to move—I need to get out of his way, but I can’t. It’s like my feet are rooted to the floor beneath me, even as the air goes sour around him, the promise of violence heavier with every step.
My heart is pounding. Buzzing. Screaming. And then it stops. I jolt, realizing it wasn’t my heart buzzing and screaming. It was a real sound. The awful, jarring buzz pierces the air again. It’s coming from the concession area—the soda machine. It stutters once and then starts again, and just like that, the spell is broken.
Clayton turns—we all turn—to see the source of the noise. Summer is frantically grabbing at different buttons on the machine, which is still buzzing and spitting. I hear a faint splash, and Summer yelps. The buzzing stops, but there’s obviously a problem. One of the dispensers is jammed.
“The machine…” Summer says quietly. She doesn’t explain anything else, but Clayton pivots. My whole body sags in relief as I watch him move quickly to the concession stand. Good. Go the hell away.
I lean back against a ticket booth, feeling boneless. But then my eyes catch on the back of Clayton’s Riverview Theaters polo. There is something underneath his shirt.
“Go before he sees you again,” Lexi whispers, shooing Hannah and Hudson off.
“We’ll help Naomi and Quincy with the bathrooms,” Hannah says. She pushes her ponytail back with a freckled hand.
I turn to see them walking away, Hudson’s forest-green Chucks slapping softly on the carpet. He flexes his fingers over and over. Because he’s always jittery, or because Clayton got to him too?
Either way, he and Hannah head to the restrooms like Lexi suggested. The bathrooms and party rooms are over there, just past the doors that connect the theater to the now-defunct shopping mall. It’s strange and dark on the east side of the theater now, the oversize connector doors perpetually closed, leaving a blank gray wall that reminds us this place is becoming more lifeless by the day.
“Want to do the ticket booths?” Lexi asks me.
“Sure. I’ll get the floors too.” My voice shakes, but I try to swallow it. Try not to look up at the soda machine where Clayton is working with Summer. Because it doesn’t matter what I think I saw under his shirt. We are leaving in an hour, and I’ll never see this place or that asshole again.
I force myself to power down the ticket machines and wipe down both booths quickly. I snag and stack the small trash cans and set the extra receipt tape and unprinted tickets into neat rows in a small box. Before I know it, the lobby is done.
“Concession time,” Lexi singsongs.
“Joy,” I say sarcastically.
I’m pretending this is any other closing shift. That I’m bored and ready for Saturday night to begin. Normally that would mean driving Naomi home to my sister, Cara. Tonight it’s supposed to mean pancakes with everyone except the bulky, blond nightmare lurking at the soda machine.
I follow Lexi slowly to the concession counter. The soda machine is being triaged by Summer and Clayton on the left, but we head to the right, to the food-prep area and popcorn machine. Lexi starts dumping crusty, overcooked hot dogs, and I tear down the pretzel display on autopilot. And I keep an eye on Clayton and Summer.
No. That’s not really true. I’m not looking at Summer. I’m looking at the bulge under the back of Clayton’s shirt.
It must be something other than what I’m thinking. I’m imagining shapes where there aren’t shapes.
A steady stream of cola starts up again with a sputter, hissing into the black spill grate with enough force to splash the walls and floor, and no doubt Summer and Clayton too. Summer hides behind the curtain of her waist-length hair, but I can still see her shoulders hunch. And I can still see the strange, squarish lump at the small of Clayton’s back.
“Turn it off!” Clayton shouts.
Summer flinches but moves forward. Every part of her is shivering, her long sweater and skirt shaking along with her hands. She pushes the button that should turn it off, but nothing happens. He shoves his way in front of her.
“What the hell did you do?” he snaps.
“I’m sorry,” Summer whispers.
Lexi puts down the spray bottle. “Yeah, okay. I’ve about had enough.”
“Me too,” I whisper. But I don’t move. I hold my breath and hope I blend in with the popcorn machine. Some small shameful part of me knows I can stop this. I could slip up there and quietly fix the machine and take over the cleaning so Clayton could simmer down and probably disappear. I could do it because I’m like wallpaper to him. Quiet, efficient wallpaper.
On another day, I could force myself to snap out of the ice that’s trapped me, but now I can only stare at the bulge beneath his shirt while my throat squeezes until I can’t breathe. I grip the counter and try to keep my heart from thumping out of my chest, but my memory is dragging me back year by year, back to the last time I saw a thing like that.
Are we in big trouble?
Clayton continues to snap at Summer, and though I burn with shame for abandoning her to this mess, I can’t move an inch. The spill grate breaks loose on the soda machine and Clayton swears. Summer jumps back, and Lexi puts down her rag and starts toward them. Lexi is not wallpaper; she is patent leather pumps and red lipstick. Nothing fazes Lexi, not even Clayton.
Clayton shoves the machine so hard the legs scrape the tile beneath. Maybe he does it for better access or maybe just because he’s pissed, but then Lexi is right there, sliding into the scene right between Summer and Clayton. Her voice is calm, and her hands are raised in gentle supplication.
Whatever Lexi says is lost to me, because in that moment I notice Clayton’s gray polo has ridden up in the back. The thing I’d been trying to guess…the strange squared lump that I wanted to be something else. A full inch of it is visible now, above his belt. It is black and textured and curved in a way that invites a human hand.
My body goes cold, and my mind flashes back. The jangle of bells over a door. Plastic lighters on dirty linoleum. A crimson pool on the gas station floor. And Cara’s voice so frightened in our small hiding space.
Are we in big trouble?
Clayton tugs his shirt back into place. He looks me dead in the eye as if to dare me to ask the question burning in the center of my throat. In the end, he skulks back to the office, and Lexi starts on the cleanup. My joints finally unlock, the spell broken. I finish the counter like it’s an ordinary night. Like this was any other tantrum thrown by our temperamental manager.
But it’s not any other night or any other tantrum. This time, Clayton has a gun.
Chapter 2
Lexi sends me to check on the bathrooms to see if they need help with stocking the paper products. I cannot move fast enough. Quincy and Naomi find me wiping down the water fountain between the two restrooms. They’re pushing one of the bathroom cleaning carts and dragging a box filled with paper towels and toilet paper. I still hear Hannah and Hudson in the other restroom.
Naomi comes straight up to me. My sister’s girlfriend is witty and gorgeous, with enormous dark eyes and hair that is always flawlessly styled and never worn the same way twice. Last week she had an elaborate beaded updo. This week, her tight curls spring wild, spiraling in a thousand directions. Quincy, in contrast, looks exactly the same. Same tortoiseshell glasses and sideswept black hair. Same blue jeans, gray sneakers, and shy smile.
Naomi peels off her yellow rubber gloves. “Hey, Hudson came back here talking about some shit that went down?”
I stop cleaning and nod. I think about the gun strapped to his back. Should I tell them? Do they already know?
“Yeah, so fill us in already,” she says.
“Hudson ticked off Clayton,” I say.
Naomi crosses her arms. “It’s a day that ends in y, so that makes sense. Let me guess, in response Clayton went and lost his damn mind.”
I wince, wishing she’d speak more softly. I don’t want Clayton to hear her. I don’t want him to hear or see any of us, but I’m not likely to see that wish come true. Disappearing in plain sight is my specialty. Maybe Quincy or Summer could manage an approximation of the same thing. But Naomi and Lexi have two times too much personality to blend in. Then we have Hudson, a smart-ass who specializes in pissing Clayton off, and Hannah, who is six foot two and freckled. Invisible is out of the question for most of our group.
