Screeech—
The bedroom door groaned open with a long, metallic whine, the sound needling through the quiet like a rusty saw. Sam winced. That hinge had been crying for oil for weeks, but the "certain someone" who lived here had ignored it, same as always.
"Hey, what's up? Got your message."
Pete slipped inside and let the door swing shut behind him with another protesting creak. He flopped onto Sam's bed, stretching out like he owned the place. "And seriously, man, you have got to fix that door. Every time I hear it I lose a year of my life."
Sam didn't even glance at the hinge. His jaw was tight, eyes flat and serious.
"I called you because I'm rethinking my decision about… all of it."
Pete propped himself on an elbow. "Rethinking? What happened?"
Sam drew in a slow breath, the kind that tried—and failed—to steady a racing mind. "Here's what I found out."
---
He laid it out piece by piece: the unexpected clerk at the game shop, the casual question that turned into a gut punch, the revelation that Roseline's child—Roseline, the woman who'd been a small, bright part of his weeks—was among the abducted.
By the time Sam finished, the room felt smaller, the air heavier.
"So that's where we are." Sam leaned back in his chair, the old wood complaining beneath him.
Pete took the phone Sam handed over, the photo of the missing child glowing softly on the screen. The little girl's smile was all gap-toothed innocence and wide brown eyes.
"Cute kid," Pete murmured, then passed the phone back.
His voice hardened. "Let me get this straight. Yesterday I say we should help, and you shoot it down. Today you find out your crush's kid is taken and suddenly you're ready to play hero. That about right?"
"Yes?" Sam answered, though it came out more question than statement.
Pete's eyes narrowed. "Unbelievable. We couldn't risk our necks when it was just 'some kids,' but when it's someone you care about—then it's fine?"
Sam opened his mouth, closed it. Words tangled uselessly.
"Or maybe," Pete pressed, anger sharpening each syllable, "you just couldn't be bothered to do a kind act for strangers. But for a pretty face? Different story. What happened to 'too dangerous'? Did you forget that speech overnight?"
"Pete—"
"No." Pete stood so quickly the mattress rebounded. "I'm not sticking around for this. I'd rather turn a blind eye than help you be stupid."
---
Screeech—thud.
The door rasped open again, then shut with a decisive thump.
Both boys spun toward the sound.
"Deborah?" they said together.
She leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, a grin tugging one corner of her mouth. "What? Surprised?"
Sam blinked, still processing. "Deborah… what are you doing here?"
"For people trying to be heroes—or detectives, or whatever title you're going for—you're very, very careless." She stretched the word very like taffy.
Sam's eyes narrowed. "Meaning?"
"Oh, I followed you," she said lightly, as if announcing she'd stopped for coffee. "From the shop to the game store and then here. I was already outside when Pete showed up."
Sam rubbed a hand down his face. "Why on earth would you— I thought you went home after work."
"Nope." She popped the p with satisfaction. "Hung around. I knew something was off when I mentioned the missing kids and you got that look. And I was right. Thanks to your lovers' quarrel, I have the full scoop."
"...."
The room fell into silence for a moment
"Sam," Pete warned.
"Way ahead of you." Sam crossed the room in two strides, swung the door shut, and threw the lock. He planted himself in front of it like a boulder.
Deborah arched a brow. "Really? Don't you trust me?"
Silence again. Only the faint hum of the ceiling fan filled the room.
"Wow. That's encouraging." She brushed an imaginary speck from her sleeve. "Anyway, I come bearing a proposal—because clearly, you two can't do this alone. You need me."
Pete folded his arms, still bristling. "No. I've already said I'm out. I'm not doing this again."
"Come on, bud," Sam said quickly. "I'm sorry. At least… at least hear her out, okay?"
Pete exhaled through his nose, a reluctant dragon. "Fine."
Deborah's grin brightened. "Aww, that's sweet."
Sam cleared his throat. "Deborah. Proposal."
"Right." She tapped a finger to her lips in mock contemplation. "Here's what I gathered from your oh-so-private spat: you two stumbled onto whoever's behind the kidnappings. Instead of reporting it, you clammed up to save your own skins. Result? Six kids gone. And now you, Sam, want to act because your crush's ward is one of them. Did I miss anything?"
Pete gave a low whistle. "That… is pretty much the last four chapters of our lives in one sentence."
Sam managed a sheepish nod. "Accurate."
"Good." Deborah planted her hands on her hips, eyes sparkling with triumph. "So here's my pitch. Pete, you're obviously the brains—the tech guy, the one in the chair." She shot him a look straight out of Spider-Man: Homecoming. "Sam, you're the action guy. And me? I know these streets better than either of you. I've been in places you wouldn't believe. That makes me the perfect field scout."
"This is not a team," Pete said flatly.
"And," Sam added, "what the actual…frag?"
Deborah blinked. "Excuse me?"
"He means—never mind," Pete muttered. "Are you deranged or just plain weird?"
"What? I ran a whole resistance group in elementary school," she said matter-of-factly. "Snooping around is practically my thing."
Sam and Pete exchanged a look that was half disbelief, half reluctant admiration not bothering to ask the reason for the resistance.
"Anyway," Deborah continued, "I'm serious. I can help. And you know it."
The room went quiet. Pete stared at the floor, jaw working, thoughts ticking behind his eyes. Sam felt his own heartbeat quicken—part anticipation and dread.
Finally Pete sighed. "Okay. Okay. You can tag along. I just hope we don't get killed."
"Yes!" Deborah pumped a fist, oddly gleeful.
Sam allowed himself a small smile. "First things first," he said, "let's get you up to speed."
---
Outside, evening shadows pooled along the street. A stray breeze rattled the warped windowpane, carrying with it the distant echo of a motorcycle engine—low, lingering, almost like a warning.
******