The safe lets out a negative beep, and then, before he can try again, the countdown disappears, replaced by a message:
0 ATTEMPTS REMAINING.
“Shit,” mutters Jaxon. Something grinds behind the metal door, as if the locks are somehow clamping tighter.
And then, the safe begins tospeak.
A voice pours into the room, like smoke rolling over all of them. A voice Malcolm first heard more than thirty years ago. A voice they’ve all heard at some point, in TV interviews, in Edgar speeches, in online clips. A voice at once ominous and intimate, frayed by age but weighted with gravitas.
“Well, well, well,” says the disembodied voice of Arthur Fletch. “You’ve really gone and fucked it now.”
No one speaks. No one even breathes. The six living writers in the room stand still, held fast by the dead man’s voice.
“Are you really so pathetic?”
Kenzo comes unstuck, silently circling the desk.
“Are you really that afraid?”
Malcolm, who’d been bracing in the doorway, drifts toward the others gathered around the safe.
“I’m not angry. I’m just... disappointed.”A weary sigh, like static.“Has the idea of work become so daunting? You can’t face it for a few measly hours? Pathetic. This is whyyoudon’t know the override, remember? It’s for your own good.”
Too late, Malcolm realizes that Arthur Fletch hasn’t recorded some prescient message from beyond the grave. He isn’t talking to them. He’s talking tohimself.
“Get out of your head. It’s books, not bodies, Arthur. So go back to your desk, sit down, and do the goddamn work.”
The message ends, Fletch’s voice dropping like a call, replaced by heavy silence. Until Jaxon says “Fuck me,” one hand going to his chest. “That was eerie.”
“It was also good advice,” murmurs Priscilla, looking like she’s seen—well, heard—a ghost.
“It really is all writers, huh?” says Millie.
Malcolm stares at the safe, desperation rising like a tide inside his chest as his legs carry him forward.
The others shift aside to let him pass.
He brings his forehead to rest against the cool steel of the safe.
Even though Sienna’s body is on the stairs, all he can think is that she’s inthere. What’s left of her. Her voice on his phone. A handful of voicemails he never bothered to delete. Her own cell, and her laptop, with her ideas.Theirideas.Theirwork.
Behind him, the others are back to bickering.
“Someone tried to open it,” says Kenzo.
“Uh, yeah,” says Jaxon. “We did. Just now.”
“Your powers of observation are staggering. It said zero attempts remaining, and there’s no way it only started with one. Which means someone has been trying to get in.”
Millie’s voice rises in pitch. “Why are you all looking at me?” she squeaks.
“Come on, Mill,” says Jaxon. “You practically hyperventilated when they took your phone.”
“You did turn in your ending,” adds Cate, sounding apologetic. “Maybe you were bored?”
“This is bullshit!”
“It doesn’t matter,” snaps Priscilla. “The fact is, we’re locked out. We have no boat. No internet. No phones. No way to get help.”
