I shake my head. “Of course not,” I whisper.

  Tobias clears his throat. “Yeah,” he rasps. “Neither am I.”

  Another piece of the puzzle box springs open. I glance back at Tobias, and his mouth quirks humorlessly before I return my hard stare to the wood’s intricate carvings. Santo isn’t a violent person. There’s no reason he would assault Tobias, even if Tobias had sent Matt an ominous message.

  My temples throb. I can’t make sense of this new information.

  “Steffi,” Tobias repeats. His voice is strangely hoarse. “Steffi—” He slumps, falling onto the tiled floor, and I snap my chin toward him so fast that I pull a muscle in my neck. Oh my God. Something’s wrong.

  Across the room, Guinevere’s ax-thwacking stops. “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know,” I choke, terror taking over as Tobias gasps for air. “He was fine a second ago. We were just talking—”

  “Steffi,” he wheezes, his bloodshot eyes bulging as hives begin to break out across his freckled skin, “get my… EpiPen.”

  “He’s going into anaphylactic shock.” Guinevere rushes over, but her prognosis can’t change anything when Tobias’s hypodermic epinephrine is in his medical bag, and that’s currently locked away behind the fridge door. “There must have been something coating the puzzle box; one of his allergies must be triggered.” She bends down to the slick box and sniffs it. “This isn’t grease—it’s peanut oil.”

  I swallow the residue of my acid reflux. “Jesus,” I whisper, feeling small and stupid and helpless. But I’m not. I stood in BREAKOUT’s lobby, I signed the fucking waiver, and I manipulated everyone into coming inside Arsonist’s Revenge. And now, nothing I do is going to bring my friends back.

  We can never go back to the way things were.

  Warm bile lurches up my throat, and this time I can’t force it down. I run to the toilet and vomit into the empty bowl. The LEDs. Tobias’s purpling face. Guinevere’s spilling tears. Santo’s sizzling yellow-blond hair. Charity’s empty wrists. Malachi’s walkie-talkie panic.

  When I close the lid and return, wiping the corners of my mouth, Tobias is still thrashing, and there’s still nothing we can do for him. My heart drops. Another impending death on my hands, all because I wanted to know the unknowable.

  Guinevere reaches for the puzzle box, her nails iridescent in the light, but I grab her wrist before she can touch the wood. “You can’t.”

  It could be dangerous, I want to add, but the words get stuck in my acid-filled throat. Everything smells like mercaptan and white sage and the undernotes of her bougainvillea perfume.

  The LEDs catch on Guinevere’s sharp jaw; her eyes flash red. “Why not?” she asks, her voice rising a hysterical octave, and I immediately understand that whatever fragile peace was stretching between us is shattered now. “You constantly pilfer other people’s shit: your dad’s shirt. Matt’s trench coat. Charity’s watch, probably.” She snatches the puzzle box from the floor before stalking to the other side of the bathroom set, back to her rubber ax. “You’re a collector, Stephanie,” she says as she sets the puzzle box on the floor. “You collect: plastic ducks, postpunk revival vinyls, people.” She lines up the ax-head. “I wonder”—THWACK—“what it’ll be”—THWACK—“from me.” The puzzle box splits in two. “Which of my”—THWACK—“possessions”—THWACK—“are you eyeing?”

  With a final THWACK, the puzzle box skitters toward my bloodied Converse. Guinevere keeps smashing. Wood chips explode everywhere.

  By the process of elimination, she’s the killer. I don’t know if she’s getting her practice swings in before coming for me, but I need to do something. Charity is dead. Malachi is dead. Santo is dead. Tobias is as good as dead. Guinevere almost died, we’re both running out of air, and I’m sure the jig is up. At any moment now, she’s going to turn on me.

  But then again, if Guinevere is tonight’s mastermind, then why is she bludgeoning the puzzle box instead of me?

  My burning throat is paper-dry. “Enough,” I rasp. Guinevere glances at me, and the cold fury in her face is enough to make my breath catch. “You opened it, Gee.”

  Between us, Tobias jerks as she levels the ax-head at me. “Stay right there,” she demands, her voice wobbling, and for a second, I’m not sure if she’s talking to him or me. Except Gee isn’t looking at Tobias, and she doesn’t break eye contact with me as she pulls apart the remaining peanut-oil-covered pieces of the puzzle box.

  Inside it is another photograph. I don’t need to see it to know it’s from Raiders of the Lost Temple, the fifth escape room our friend group ever did. Guinevere flips the picture over, scanning the back, and I watch her, afraid to breathe. If she set up tonight’s game—if she placed the Raiders of the Lost Temple photograph with our stabbed-out eyes inside the puzzle box meant to trigger Tobias’s worst allergy—then why is she keeping up the act? She should be trying to kill me. My video should be cued on the LCD monitor. I should be dead.

  “They’re instructions,” Guinevere murmurs, more to herself than to me. “The shower handle is a lever.” She glares at me. “Fucking bitch.”

  Before I can respond, Guinevere raises the ax again, pointing it at me as she backs around the broken HVAC vent and toward the walk-in shower. “No sudden movements,” she warns. She keeps one shaking arm up, still threatening me, while she reaches behind her to fiddle with the lever. I watch her spin it to the left, then the right, and then up. A protest rises in my throat, but then there’s a terrible grinding as the half of the shower wall with the built-in mirror gives way. Guinevere pauses before letting the lever go; the one-way glass rolls back into place. I understand her hesitation. Because I was right: There’s one more area inside Arsonist’s Revenge.

  And it follows the layout of the area that Matt suffocated inside last year.

  Guinevere’s chest heaves. She wipes her sweating forehead, still holding the ax, and I realize her crop top is wet with blood and gore and splattered tears. And it’s only the two of us left now, and I don’t know why I still care so much about her, but I do.

  Except maybe it’s because I hold on to friendships until my dug-in fingernails crack and bleed. And maybe it’s because I always have.

  “What do we have left?” Guinevere asks. I blink, startled. She’s looking at me.

  There’s No Escape Rule #12: If you’re stuck, consolidate.

  “We haven’t found the last photograph,” I tell her, my shredded voice laced with bile. Tobias is still gasping for air. He needs his EpiPen, a doctor, an emergency room. Anaphylaxis can kill you in less than fifteen minutes—I learned that scouring WebMD in the wake of last year’s fire—and the clock inside Arsonist’s Revenge is at 10:18.

  She nods. “This is the last room, then,” she says, her storm-gray gaze fixed on my face. “You didn’t think I’d be alive at this point, so whatever’s in here… I’ll either die exploring, or I’ll discover your secret way out.” The corners of her Cupid’s-bow lips turn downward. “This is an enclosed space, though. And with the carbon monoxide…”

  “Wait.” I blink. “Do you think I set this up?”

  “Shut up!” Guinevere screams, spittle flying from her mouth, and I flinch. “I don’t need any of your mind games right now, Stephanie. Accept that you lost and just let me fucking think, Christ. It’s almost over. I just… I just need to decide what to do.”

  Her attention flicks to the countdown. Together, we watch it turn from 10:00 to 9:59. Less than ten minutes left.

  While Guinevere paces, my gaze drifts back to Tobias’s arms, which are usually so full of nervous energy and now are oddly still on the washed-out, white-tiled floor. But then my vision snags on something poking out of his oversized CEDAR CREEK HIGH SCHOOL CHESS CLUB sweatshirt, so I crouch down and slip my hand against the soft maroon fabric. If it’s a phone—if he was hiding a fucking phone and didn’t mention it after three deaths, after a gas leak, after the argument where we could have called our parents or the fire department or, God forbid, Sheriff Stallard to come and break down this door—I’m going to actually lose my mind. But then my fingers meet cold steel, and my breath hitches as the object’s silver cross glitters in the floodlights.

  Oh my God.

  It’s my Swiss Army knife.

  13 Days Before the Accident

  People say I’m a genius.

  Allow me to revise: I am a genius.

  “So, once again,” I start as I turn toward Malachi with my voice lowered. “After spending all year attempting to hack into Cedar Creek Confessions, I finally hold access to the account.” I spare Matt’s brother a begrudging glance of acknowledgment for this simple fact before turning back to our Game Master. Honestly, Santo got lucky that his identical twin is stupid enough to not have Face ID disabled on his phone, but whatever. Not all of us can be Mensans. “This means we can unmask Matt as Cedar Creek Confessions to the entire student body. We’ll be able to save Charity’s election bid, discredit his post about Guinevere’s jewelry business, get me back on the chess team, clear up the allegations against Steffi’s blog, and reinstate your reputation as a…” I wave a hand, searching for the right word.

  “Story influencer,” Malachi supplies. “A creator of video narratives, providing entertainment to oft-underrepresented communities.”

  “Sure,” I say, “whatever. All we need to do is create a post on the Confessions account while posing as Matt.” I clear my throat, aware that it’s suddenly itchy—probably because of all the dust and pollen gathering inside the towers of every geriatric computer in Mr. Foxfield’s ancient media center—so I slide a bottle of Flonase from the pocket of my sweatpants and spritz it twice in each nostril before continuing. “For that, we’ll need you”—I point at Charity—“to write it, and you”—I point at Santo—“to make sure it sounds authentic, and you”—I point at Steffi—“to keep Matt from his phone long enough for the post to spread without his knowledge.” I smirk. “Ideally, the entire student body will take enough screenshots while Matt’s out of commission for his digital footprint to be tied to Cedar Creek Confessions forever, and then our work will be done.”

  Steffi nods. “Since we only have a week left until the last day of school,” she says, glancing at the rest of us, “any fallout from our master plan will happen over the summer. It’ll make it harder for Matt to push back, which has the added benefit of destroying his leverage with the student body by the time we come back to school in August for our senior year.”

  To our left, a few stations over, Alyssa Hayes is nose-deep in a Google Docs essay. I can’t see what she’s writing, but it’s probably an application to our local community college. Word on the street is, the last state college on her list just rescinded her acceptance after her criminal charges became official, which means she’s out of luck for the rest of the year.

  There’s a visible trail of mascara tears smudged across her cheeks. Gross. I’ll never understand how certain people can allow themselves to cry in public.

  “So you’re delegating,” Malachi says, his eyes cutting to me, “and Charity is writing and Santo is proofreading and Steffi is distracting. But all this brings me back to my earlier question”—here, he throws me a dirty look—“which is: Where do I fit in with all of this?”

  In response, Santo’s dark gaze flicks from me, to Steffi, to the computer in front of us (which is quietly playing a video on the Riemann theorem in case Mr. Foxfield walks by and asks what we’re supposed to be working on) before it finally settles back on Malachi. “Well,” he says, “the post works better if we get Matt to confess he runs the account directly.”

  I narrow my eyes; I still don’t like the fact that Santo is here, even if he did give us the password for his brother’s gossip-driven Instagram. Out of all of us, he’s the only one who hasn’t been targeted by Cedar Creek Confessions. But since Malachi has, I guess that’s enough for everyone to accept that Santo’s playing turncoat.

  I’m not sure if I quite buy it, though.

  “Right,” Charity says encouragingly, twisting the pearl necklace sitting at the base of her throat. “And we, like, were hoping to do that through a video? Because, you know, that’s your area of expertise.”

  “Ah,” Malachi says slowly. “You want @Mal.The.Reel.King to hook you up.” His smile drops. “Y’all know that post was fake, though, right? I don’t actually use the conversations I overhear while acting as Game Master to inspire my online content.”

  From the desk of the media center, Mr. Foxfield glances up at us. His gaze drops to our huddle, and he makes a cut-it-out motion with his hand to his neck.

  “Sorry, Mr. Foxfield!” Charity chirps, already reaching out to adjust the volume. “We’re getting extra help with AP Calculus, but we can turn it down.”

  Guinevere scoffs. “None of us are even in AP Calculus,” she says. When I glance at her, she rolls her eyes. “Don’t even try it, Tobias—I know you took it last year.”

  “Don’t you take AP Calculus for two years?” Steffi asks.

  Guinevere shakes her head. “Not if you’re a fucking nerd and do both AB and BC in one.”

  Steffi blinks. “You can do that? As a sophomore?”

  “Anyway,” I tell Malachi, attempting to get the conversation back on track, “it’s not like you’re committing a HIPAA violation or anything. Regardless of the legality of the whole BREAKOUT surveillance situation, though, if we claim Matt is behind the account without proof—even with a well-written confession—he could just claim his account got hacked. No one will believe us.”

  “Right,” Santo says, leaning across the keyboard’s numpad to flutter his eyelashes at Malachi. “But with video evidence…”

  “There may be a way to beat him,” I finish. And I’m right.

  Malachi doesn’t smile at Santo. Instead, his gaze slides to mine, assessing. “What’s in it for me?” he asks.

  “How about restoring your reputation?” I say as I slip my Flonase back into my sweatpants. “Keeping your followers from canceling you? Helping out all your friends?”

  Hell, how many times do I need to repeat myself before the plan sinks in? For all the snide comments my classmates make about my intelligence, sometimes I feel like my IQ is average and everyone around me is a complete idiot instead.

  Steffi nods, her face grim. “We need to take him down, Mal. Matt’s account is only spiraling more out of control every day. Say you’re in.”

  “Please,” Charity adds as Mr. Foxfield gives us another appraising look. Or maybe it’s a warning glance.

  Malachi chews his bottom lip, clearly mulling our proposal over, but I don’t say anything as he does. If chess has taught me anything, it’s that keeping a cool head can prevent you from losing, even if winning is impossible. But I don’t think I’ll need to force a draw here. I’ve noticed an uptick in hate comments on Malachi’s Reels ever since the Cedar Creek Confessions post about his storytelling practices came out. And I’d bet he’s all too willing to take revenge.

  Finally, he sighs. “We just need to record him admitting that he runs the account?”

  “Exactly,” Santo says.

  Now he’s getting it.

  “So… are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Steffi asks. A smile creeps across her face. Everyone else looks confused, but her dark brown eyes flick to mine, and I nod. She nods back.

  “Pull up the BREAKOUT website,” Steffi tells Malachi. “We need to book an escape room.”

  Wednesday, May 20, 2026, 11:51 PM

  Okay. Don’t panic. Don’t freak out. You’re okay. It’s okay. You’ll both be okay.

  Except I’m not and it’s not and we won’t be. I blink pooling tears from my eyes. Choke back salt water. Drop the cool metal blade. It skitters away, and when I reach for it again, my hands are trembling too fast for me to properly grip the handle. I mutter a string of obscenities and try again. Fucking focus, Steffi. Tobias stole your knife. Pick it up. Move.

  Did he cut the wires of the emergency exit, too? Is he the reason we’re stuck here? Did he lure us into BREAKOUT? Underneath my skin, the blood in my veins swirls with a deadly mixture of adrenaline, hysteria, painkillers, and carbon monoxide. It’s not like I can ask him any of those questions now. I glance at his twitching body and force down the hot bile crawling up my throat. Instead of throwing up, I focus on the weight of the Swiss Army knife—my goddamn Swiss Army knife—against my sweating palm. My still-trembling fingers can’t unveil the drop point blade, though, so I switch to my thumbnail until the metal flicks out into the oxidizing mercaptan-tainted air.

  It’s wet.

  On the LCD monitor, the hot-pink smiley face reappears. “Hey.” Not-Matt’s voice razes through the room, echoing from everywhere, filling the roar of my blood-filled eardrums. I can’t stop looking at the blade, the dark oil gummed to its sharp edge, the Rorschach inkblots curing on its hilt. “Tobias. Because you have failed to escape in time, you have been eliminated, and your secret will now be revealed for you.” Not-Matt smiles. “Now, this is disappointing, as I expected more of a fight from our premier chess player. But, oh well. Life moves on.”

  There’s a wet knife in my hand. Tobias used it. He used it here, on us.

  Audio crinkles in through the speakers, crunchy and distorted, until there’s no denying it: This is happening right now, whether we like it or not. Despite everything—Charity’s motto, Malachi’s unease, Santo’s plan, Tobias’s warnings, Guinevere’s advice—I’m still drawn to the LCD monitor like a moth to a flame.

  This time, I’m staring at the inside of the Cedar Creek gymnasium, watching the Sixth Annual Sevier County Chess Championship. This is old footage, streamed through YouTube for avid players and idle gamers to watch in real time; Tobias always used to invite us to watch through Discord links when he knew he was playing, but I always preferred to let the stream run in the background while I did AP Human Geography homework or brushed up on my online escape game skills—if I even clicked on it at all. The thought sours my stomach. For all my angst about my friends, I could’ve been a better one myself.