Page 27 of Don't Watch Alone
“You’re probably right. Shit, now you’ve got me all worked up,” Tony says with a nervous laugh.
I glance toward the kitchen. The tuna casserole still sits on the counter, untouched, the steam is long gone now. I wasted the wholedamn night making that thing, stressing over Andy, obsessing over what he might be up to, all while Gus was right here, quietly slipping under the radar. Or maybe not. Maybe I’m wrong again. And that’s the part that gnaws at me—not knowing. Not being sure.
Tony breathes out and pushes off the wall. “If Gus is just heading out for a late-night stroll or whatever, I guess we’re done for the night, huh?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My eyes are glued to the now-empty doorway, my brain retracing every sound we heard, every second of silence that followed. That leads straight down to the alley. There is nothing back there but dumpsters.
“Blaiz?”
I shake my head, a shiver passing through me. “We’re not done.”
I meet Tony’s eyes, and whatever brave face he’s trying to hold breaks just enough for me to see the same flicker of dread I feel within me. I step toward the door, with my hand resting above the lock. There’s something offabout Gus, something troubling in that apartment, and I’m not about to sit here and pretend everything’s normal. Not when everything in me is screaming that something is very, very wrong.
Chapter twelve
Blaiz
Thesoundofthemall at night always carries a kind of emptiness, but tonight, it sinks into my skin like something toxic. Usually, once the crowd thins out and the gates start dropping, there’s a peace that comes with it—the silence of fluorescent lights dimming, the scuffed tile shining under our tired feet, the smell of stale perfume hanging in the air—but not tonight. Tonight, the quiet wraps around me too tight, like a warning, like a fucking premonition. I’m supposed to be watching for Gus, hoping maybe he’ll pass by the storefront so I can confirm he’s still breathing, but instead, all I can do is watch Andy.
He hasn’t said shit since the start of my shift—not his usual bizarre comments or his creepy stares, none of the squirmy energy he usually brings into the space like an uninvitedguest. He’s quiet in a way that feels intentional, programmed almost, folding clothes with sharp corners and lining up displays with an intensity that makes my nerves go wild. Something feels wrong. All of it. He’s not just being weird—he’s being fucking disturbing. And that silence, paired with Tony’s warning, is gnawing at my insides. I can’t stop thinking about Gus either—how he’s suddenly my neighbor, how we heard those disturbing sounds from his apartment, and how our little dumpster dive last night came up empty. Every bit of it twists in my insides like it’s trying to pull something out of me.
The night’s been busier than I expected, with a bunch of frantic girls tearing through the racks, looking for something tight and shiny to get them through the weekend. It helped, the distraction. Kept me and Andy from having to speak, gave me something to focus on besides the fucking noise in my head. Tony wanted to come up, too—called me all worked up about being alone with Andy, about the whole damn mess—but I waved him off. I told him I’d be fine, and for him not to give Greg a reason to fire me. That was bullshit, of course. I wasn’t fine. But Greg is a vulture, and I can’t risk feeding him anything extra.
Now, the mall is empty, echoing and still, and we’re moving through the motions of closing. Andy straightens racks without saying a word to me, while I scrub the counter like it’s going to confess something if I clean it hard enough. I can feel the weight of his silence, almost louder than noise, like it’s trying to push into me.
“Blaiz,” he says suddenly, and it nearly makes me jump. I turn, and he’s looking at me—not with that creepy little smirk he usually gives, but with this weird mix of guilt and a desperate need to act on something. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry… if I freaked you out or anything.”
I stop wiping; my hand lingers over the counter. He’s trying, sure, but it doesn’t fucking cut it. Not after yesterday. “Yeah, well, you kind of did,” I say, remaining calm, with a blank face. I’m not letting him off the hook. “What did you mean about Mary yesterday?”
His eyes dart left, then right, like someone’s listening, like the mannequins might suddenly grow ears. He leans in slightly, dropping his voice so low it barely makes it across the counter. “I know what happened to her…”
And just like that, I stop breathing. Every hair on my arms stands up. This is it. This is where the truth is finally revealed.
But then the gate clicks open, and footsteps crash in like a warning shot.
Greg.
“Make sure this place is spotless before you leave,” he barks, already pacing like a detective, scanning the store with that same disapproving glare imprinted on his stupid face. “I walked into a disaster this morning, and I don’t want a repeat of that.”
I glance at him, then back to the counter, pretending to care about a smudge that doesn’t exist. What the hell is Greg doing here this late, anyway? He never—never—shows up past four. He’s gone before the sun even thinks about setting. So why now?
Andy stops, that half-spoken confession dying right there in the air, vanishing like it was never real. He looks between me and Greg, something shifting behind his eyes—fear maybe, or something worse. I don’t know.
The mall tonight feels like a trap. A breathing, watching, whispering thing. Gus, the screams, the locked door, the fucking dumpsters, Andy and his twisted knowledge, Tony pacing around in his own paranoia, and now Greg showing up unexpectedly. I trust none of them. Not one. And as Greg stomps deeper into the store, peeking behind racks like he’s looking for bodies, I feel certain this isn’t about how clean the store is.
It’s about something else. Something he doesn’t want us to see. But what?
We step out of the store, and I watch Greg and Andy veer off in the opposite direction without so much as a glance back. Not even a half-assed wave. Whatever. I don’t care. I start heading toward the exit, my footsteps echoing through the quiet mall. As I pass by the security desk, I catch sight of Gus, hunched overlike usual, fiddling with something in his hands. I stop.
“Gus,” I say, not too loud. He doesn’t react. “Gus!” I say again, sharper this time. Still nothing. I figure he’s got his damn hearing aids off again, so I walk up behind him and tap him on the shoulder. He flinches a little and reaches up, twisting the dial behind his ear. The hearing aid lets out a high-pitched squeal for a second before it settles.
“Hey, Gus,” I start, trying to sound casual, “I know we haven’t talked much, but I noticed last night you live right across from me. There were some… noises coming from your apartment, and I just wanted to make sure everything’s okay.” The words taste strange coming out, especially since part of me still thinks he could be the one who took Mary.
He looks up at me, blinking slowly like he’s trying to place me, then nods. “Oh, everything was fine,” he says, his voice is frail. “My son stopped by and brought his girlfriend.”
Son? Girlfriend? So, it wasn’t just him in there last night. Was it them yelling in the hallway?The voice I heard—it sounded like Mary—but now that I picture it, maybe it was some young couple having a late-night spat. I glance him over again. Gus looks like a stiff breeze could knock him flat on his face. There’s no fucking way he’s dragging someone off in the middle of the night, not without snapping a hip. Maybe he has nothing to do with any of this. Maybe I’ve just been seeing ghosts where there are none.
“Alright, well… have a good night, Gus,” I say, already turning to leave before the last word’s even finished. His reply—“You too”—is barely audible, swallowed up by the cavernous silence around us.
