There’s an edge to his easygoing voice, though. An underlying agitation. Briefly, I wonder if it’s because of Cedar Creek Confessions, but I hand over my device before I can think too much about it either way.

  A scowl settles over Tobias’s face as his thumbs pause over his screen. “It’s a liability to prohibit players from taking personal electronics into the escape room. What if I need to call for help? Or respond to a text?”

  “All player groups will be provided with a walkie-talkie for pertinent communication,” Malachi says. “I’ll also be in contact with you for the duration of the game, and BREAKOUT’s implemented a variety of additional safeguards in our most recent renovation for increased peace of mind. Y’all will see them as we head inside.” He pauses. “Plus, you already signed the waiver.”

  Tobias’s scowl deepens. I know I’m probably just being paranoid and whatever he’s doing on his phone—I keep getting glimpses of his screen—is none of my business. But still, I’m relieved to see him hand Malachi his device to place inside BREAKOUT’s smiley-faced bin.

  After the rest of my ex-friends follow suit, Malachi smiles. “Wonderful. Now, inside Arsonist’s Revenge”—he reaches beside him—“you can use this walkie-talkie to ask me for up to three hints. I’ve got an identical walkie-talkie, as well as live camera feeds inside the room, so I’ll be able to guide your game from the control room.” His smile widens. “Unless I’m not paying attention, of course.” When none of us laugh, Malachi does. “Kidding!”

  He asks who wants to be in charge of the walkie-talkie. Santo volunteers, the handoff is made, and then our Game Master finishes by pulling out a series of different locks—wordlock, numbered padlock, direction lock—and providing a refresher on how to manipulate each one. As a former escape room enthusiast, it’s the same rundown I’ve heard hundreds of times before, but something about tonight feels… different. There’s an unease bubbling in my stomach that refuses to settle; part of me wonders if I’m actually ready to be back. Right now, though, it doesn’t matter, because BREAKOUT’s Game Master is already heading out of the Briefing Room, and we’re all following him.

  “After we rebranded,” Malachi says as he opens a door to a midnight-black hallway outfitted with yet more LED lights, “my parents changed a lot of our internal and external processes. You’ll be glad to know that our new security measures are top-notch… And if any of you need reassurance at any point during the game, please let me know. Your safety is my top priority.”

  We pass a pair of entwined lime-green swans, a blinking eye, and a sign reading FIND YOUR OWN PATH as we follow Malachi, but the hallway isn’t long. It seems the Friendship Springs BREAKOUT only has three operational rooms, each labeled with their name and best escape time in a scrawl of UV-reactive chalk: Haunted Mansion (17:42). Alien Abduction (31:29). Arsonist’s Revenge (—:—).

  Do it for Matt, Steffi. Don’t turn around.

  Next to the door of Arsonist’s Revenge sits a built-in fire extinguisher, and my mouth goes dry as Malachi flips through his key ring. I wonder if this is part of the additional safeguards our Game Master alluded to. I wonder if the James-Mays made sure to update their sprinkler heads and fire control panels alongside their new epoxy flooring, too.

  Santo nods to the huge blackboard sitting against the opposite wall. “A lot of cool ones, huh? Looks like a decent list.”

  I follow his gaze. The blackboard includes every room, past and present, across all three BREAKOUT locations in Cedar Creek, Pigeon Forge, and Friendship Springs. A few are unfamiliar to me—Ghost Pirate’s Curse, Chemistry Class—but others I recognize from our past games: Moonshine Cabin, Serial Killer’s Hideout, Egyptian Tomb, Deranged Clown Circus, Raiders of the Lost Temple, and Hijacked.

  “Here she is,” Malachi says, swinging the door open and stepping inside. My breath hitches as I cross the threshold, and then it completely stalls in my throat as my eyes adjust to the gloom of the actual escape room. For a second, despite the fact that we’re twenty-eight miles from Cedar Creek, I’m almost convinced we’re standing exactly where Matt died last year.

  “Oh, I forgot to mention,” Malachi says, his white teeth unsettling in the escape room’s crimson floodlights, “we renovated this suite using the same schematics as the BREAKOUT in Cedar Creek, so this layout may look familiar to y’all.”

  Familiar? Arsonist’s Revenge is built exactly like Wanderland. A shiver crawls up my spine. If franchise sister rooms exist, then Friendship Springs is Cedar Creek’s identical twin.

  “Huh,” Santo says, scratching the back of his neck. “This is… uh… definitely something.”

  It’s not decorated like Wanderland, though. Instead, it looks like your average mountain cabin. There’s a kitchenette, a dining area, and an entertainment center. A stationary night scene peeks out through gingham-curtained fake windows; an ambient hum of cicadas, crickets, and owls filters in from speakers hidden among fake-log wall panels. The fridge has an amalgamation of postcards, photographs, and newspaper clippings haphazardly stuck to it with ABC magnets; the hardwood table is piled with laminated maps. A coatrack sits in the corner of the room opposite a large locked trunk. On top of the trunk lies a blank chalkboard, a piece of white chalk, and a small lantern.

  Man, there are clues in here. Puzzles to solve. Memories to recover.

  “All right. Welcome to Arsonist’s Revenge, our newest room,” Malachi says. “You’ll notice we’ve got a couple of locks around here with self-explanatory stickers marked GAME MASTER ONLY. You won’t be able to open those, so don’t waste your time. Also, if you need to leave the room for any reason at any point in the game, feel free to use this emergency mechanism to disengage the magnetized door.”

  Malachi flips up a translucent case by the entryway, revealing a red RELEASE button, and I inhale. Did we use something like this to escape Wanderland? Why can’t I remember? What actually happened to Matt?

  Breathe in for four seconds. Hold for six seconds. Breathe out for eight seconds.

  “Just make sure you hold it down for a bit—it can be a little finicky. But remember, using the button won’t count as escaping.” Malachi flashes a smile. “To win the game, you’ll need to punch the correct four-digit code into this keypad. The clues in the room will lead you to the numbers, so pay careful attention. There’s a chalkboard in case you want to take notes; if you run out of chalk or lose it, let me know so I can bring you more. Also, there are hooks on the back of the door for jackets or bags.”

  At this, Tobias immediately takes Mal up on the offer, hanging his duffel bag on the leftmost hook; Charity, smiling, tugs at her blazer but doesn’t remove it. I tuck my hands into the pockets of Matt’s trench coat. It’s staying on.

  “Now,” Malachi says once we’re all situated, “are y’all ready to hear how you’ve found yourselves in this arsonist’s cabin?” Before we can answer, he’s already launching into a rehearsed monologue about how we’ll all burn alive in an hour unless we find a way to put a stop to a crazed inferno-setter who decided to take the name of the Great Smoky Mountains literally. The fictional BREAKOUT narrative is based on a real arsonist, I think—a disgraced fire chief in a neighboring county whose rampage led to Code Purple air quality alerts around Appalachia for weeks before they caught him—but it feels doubly ominous with the shroud of my best friend’s fire-related death lingering around us.

  In front of me, Malachi wraps up his speech by asking, “Will you be able to break out?” And honestly, I’m not sure. Before I stepped away from the sponsorships and the newsletters and the SEO tracking, I’d completed 267 rooms and blogged about my spoiler-free experiences inside almost all of them on There’s No Escape to an audience of over thirteen thousand fellow escape room aficionados. But within my own friend group? Despite us playing monthly rooms, the seven of us always goofed around too much to piece together any substantial clues. I never blogged about the games we played, either. With Matt, Charity, Guinevere, Santo, Tobias, and Malachi, I was off the clock. I got to just… enjoy the games. Find the love in playing for the sake of it instead of hitting a brand deliverable or snapping a compelling thumbnail photo or crafting the perfect language surrounding the release of a new room I accessed early with discounted media tickets. Inside the safe bubble of my friend group, I didn’t need to be an expert in Caesar ciphers or puzzle flow or the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon. I just got to be a normal teenager hanging out with her friends. Looking back now, that time of my life reminds me of the easy years before my parents’ divorce, when Dad and I first started playing rooms together and I fell in love with escaping.

  Then the fire happened, and I lost everything. My friends. My blog. My memories. Matt.

  My life.

  “Okay,” Malachi says. “Any last-minute questions?” When none of us say anything, he nods to the LCD monitor mounted in the corner of the room. “Your time starts as soon as this door closes. Good luck!”

  “We’re going to need it,” Tobias mutters, scrubbing with his shoe at a slick trail of varnish made to look like gasoline near the room’s threshold.

  “What the hell is your problem?” Guinevere snarls, rounding on Tobias as the door shuts behind Malachi. Charity’s doe eyes ping-pong between the two of them. A burn-scarred grin tugs at the corner of Santo’s mouth; he’s clearly entertained by the show. I shake my head and return my attention to the screen. Despite what Malachi said, our time is still frozen at 60:00.

  For a second, the screen flickers. The timer disappears, replaced with a flash of hot pink burning brightly against my eyelids: YOU’LL PAY FOR THE FIRE.

  When I blink again, though, the words are gone. Jesus. If Malachi’s trying to terrify us, it’s working.

  The ambient cabin noises swell. The screen brightens, and our Game Master’s newly disembodied voice wishes us good luck again over Santo’s walkie-talkie. Our time reappears on the monitor: 60:00.

  And then it starts counting down.

  CEDAR CREEK CONFESSIONS

  posted one month ago

  Did you miss me, Cedar Creek? I’ve certainly missed you.

  We have a lot to talk about.

  I can’t wait to dive in.

  UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT

  EASTERN DISTRICT OF TENNESSEE

  GREENEVILLE DIVISION

  CATELYN ADLER; ILLARIA CESARI;

  and EDWARD MITCHELL-MOORE,

  Plaintiffs,

  v.

  RANDALL JAMES and TALIYAH MAY,

  Defendants. Case No. 2:25-CR-00123-JRG-DCP

  EXHIBIT C

  Instagram Direct Messages from Stephanie Zamekova

  Instagram Direct Messages from Stephanie Zamekova

  #deadchat

  11:25 PM

  hey, we’re still on for tonight, right?

  i just wanted to check. i’m here parked outside of

  golden dragon and mal is wondering what the holdup is

  11:37 PM

  hello?

  11:46 PM

  guys, we really can’t do a whole escape room with only one person

  11:50 PM

  okay, if y’all don’t show up in literally the next two minutes

  i swear i’m venmo-requesting the deposit back from each of you

  guinevere.m.moore:

  will you chill the fuck out, stephanie

  like christ

  i’m on my way. should be there in five

  tobias_is_never_quinton:

  i will, unfortunately, also be there soon <3

  charity.adler:

  Same!

  Tell Malachi we love him and sorry for making him wait Xx

  santo.77

  matt and i are pulling up now, see everyone in a bit :)

  11:52 PM

  you’re still good with what we’re doing, right?

  you don’t think it’s wrong?

  guinevere.m.moore:

  christ. relax, steffi. everything is going to be fine

  besides, you know the consequences if you back out now

  yeah. i know.

  guinevere.m.moore:

  great. glad to hear you’re done pussyfooting. 3 mins away

  see you soon

  guinevere.m.moore:

  you will.

  just remember

  after this, it all ends. for good.

  Wednesday, May 20, 2026, 11:00 PM

  “So… are we going to divide and conquer this shit?” Tobias asks, giving each of us a skeptical once-over from his position by the magnetized door. “Assign roles? Agree to check in with one another after set time increments?”

  He’s deliberately ignoring Guinevere’s comment, which is smart. Tobias navigates social interactions like a game of chess; between his prescriptions and his obsessive tendencies, he believes it’s possible to prepare for anything. But clearly someone caught him lacking lately. I frown at his black eye, trying to get a closer look without him noticing I’m staring again. Keep your eyes to yourself. Who was he texting so frantically earlier? What does he know? Why did he even show up at BREAKOUT tonight? To find out, I’ll need to play the long game. Except I’ve only bought myself an hour to find out what my ex-friends are hiding. And the clock—now at 59:53—is already ticking away.

  “Thinking back to our earlier experiences,” Tobias continues, “I’d attribute our past failures to a general unawareness of our surroundings, an inevitable communication breakdown, and an underinvolved Game Master.” Here, Tobias pointedly glances at the blinking security camera mounted next to the LCD monitor. “To obtain a better outcome, we should attempt to mitigate at least one of these variables moving forward.”

  “I heard that,” Malachi’s voice garbles over Santo’s walkie-talkie at the same time Guinevere snaps, “We’re playing an escape room, Tobias, not conducting an experiment using the scientific method or whatever the fuck. Stop psychoanalyzing us and start looking around the room.”

  She’s right. If this were a normal game, I’d already be trawling through the couch cushions, popping open the entertainment center’s DVDs, and scrutinizing the assortment of fake fruit arranged in the center of the dining table. I’d send the HOME, SWEET HOME doormat skittering across the concrete floor with a well-placed kick. I’d scan the cabin scenery in every fake window after diligently rattling the gingham-patterned curtains. I’d try lifting the framed cabin photographs by the clothing rack to see if they’re concealing a hidden safe. And after my initial curiosity was satiated, I’d snatch up the chalkboard and take inventory of every single lock within this eight-by-sixteen-foot area. My fingers twitch with the suppressed urge to begin cataloging: the wordlock on the trunk, the two numbered padlocks on the fridge handle, the combination lock on the kitchen cabinet. There’s No Escape Rule #4: Always pay attention to your surroundings.

  Jesus. I’m already slipping into escape-room blogger mode, and I’ve only been back inside BREAKOUT for twenty-two seconds. Maybe I’ve missed this more than I thought.

  Tonight, though, I can’t play the game how I would under normal circumstances. Instead, I grit my teeth and stay by the magnetized door with my hands tucked in Matt’s leather coat. I willingly stepped inside Arsonist’s Revenge tonight. So did my former friends. And we all have our own agendas—our own reasons for being here—even if I don’t know those reasons yet. As for me, I intend to draw out our sixty minutes for as long as possible. After this, we’re each going to go back to pretending the other members of our ex-friend group don’t exist—which means if I want closure, I’ll need to suppress my ability to puzzle out clues quickly in favor of making this cobbled-together form of extreme exposure therapy work.

  Santo grins; his canines glint in the red LED light. “I mean, we should strategize. After all, we’ve never beaten one of BREAKOUT’s rooms before.” He wiggles his paint-chipped fingernails in my direction. “Good thing we have an expert with us.”

  “I’m not much of an expert anymore,” I warn, glancing up at the countdown: 59:37. Every second counts.

  “Well, it’s not like you helped us win any room we’ve done in the past,” Charity says, dropping into a dining table chair with a light sigh. “So, like, maybe you never were?” She rubs her eyes before she takes out her graduation speech and unfolds it. Lovely. “At worst, though, we’re locked in here for the next hour. We may as well make the most of our time.”

  “Easy for you to say when you’re once again prioritizing politics over your friends,” Guinevere spits before stalking off toward the entertainment center. Santo shrugs and heads toward the kitchenette with an apologetic look at Charity. I glance sideways at Tobias.

  “And everyone is spreading out to do their own thing again,” Tobias says, striding forward to snatch the lantern sitting on the end table. “Wonderful.”

  Now that everyone’s claimed a different part of the room for our initial search, I head for the coatrack, where I’ll be able to strategize in peace. Arsonist’s Revenge isn’t a huge escape room. The players are always in plain sight of one another, so there’s nowhere I’ll be able to go throughout the course of the game to catch a moment alone, to escape the already-building tension, to truly think. Unease gnaws at me as I assess the clothes draped across the coatrack: a worn lumberjack flannel, a faux-raccoon-tail-adorned hat, and an old CCHS hoodie. My brows crease at the last item—CCHS merch here, all the way in Friendship Springs?—before I dig my fingers into its lint-speckled kangaroo pouch. Were things always this tense between the six of us? I don’t think so, but maybe my Swiss cheese brain has not only blocked out my memories of Matt’s death but rounded out the hard edges of all my ex-friends’ personalities, too.

  I shake my head to dislodge the thought. Whether they’re bad people or not, the other players are also my primary witnesses. I need to start digging for information from them, although I’ll need to be careful with how I do it. I still suspect that Santo arranged this get-together, but the truth is, any of us could have dropped off those invitations. We still know one another’s addresses from birthday parties and post-homecoming sleepovers and drunken game nights; it would be easy for each one of us to slip a piece of cardstock into everyone else’s mailbox. I can still picture our houses in my mind: the Mitchell-Moores’ carpeted basement where Guinevere and I snuck shots from the expensive tequila in her parents’ oakwood alcohol cabinets, the sprawling outdoor pool in Charity’s backyard where we played Truth or Dare in our swimsuits under the open night sky, the fenced-in pens on the Matthews family farm where Tobias and I would take turns bottle-feeding baby goats, the laughter-filled PowerPoint nights at the Cesari twins’ duplex, the large flat-screen TV of Malachi’s parents’ home theater.