Ten After Closing

by Jessica Bayliss

  Praise for

  TEN AFTER CLOSING

  “Both touching and terrifying. Be careful! You may actually burn your fingers reading Ten After Closing. What starts as a spark turns into a raging inferno that you won’t be able to put down. Wonderful characters + nail-biting tension = one fantastic book.”

  —Billy Taylor, author of Thieving Weasels

  “Ten After Closing sinks teeth into you from page one and never lets go. Reading this YA heist-gone-wrong thriller was like being strapped to the front of a Ferrari doing 120mph. Set two alarm clocks—Bayliss has crafted an instant page turner that will have you up way past ten. This book is one. Wild. Ride.”

  —Matthew Landis, author of League of American Traitors and The Not-So-Boring Letters of Private Nobody

  “When you start Ten After Closing, you will ignore friends, family, and everyone else until you’ve read the last page.”

  —Shaun Harris, author of The Hemingway Thief

  “This fast-paced thriller grabs on from the first page and doesn’t let go. I felt an urgent need to read Scott and Winny out of danger, yet feared every new page for all the twists and turns. Ten After Closing does not disappoint, culminating in a heart-pounding finale that left me feeling breathless.”

  —Kristina McBride, author of The Bakersville Dozen and A Million Times Goodnight

  “Told in alternating perspectives and timelines, this is one unnerving thriller that’s destined to make its mark. “

  —Dahlia Adler, for BN Teen Blog

  Copyright © 2018 by Jessica Barber

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  First Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are from the author’s imagination, and used fictitiously.

  Sky Pony Press books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or info@skyhorsepublishing.com.

  Sky Pony® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  Visit our website at www.skyponypress.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available on file.

  Cover illustration by Kevin Tong

  Cover design by Kate Gartner

  Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-5107-3207-0

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-3211-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Samantha. You believed I could, and so I did.

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  Acknowledgments

  1

  SCOTT

  THREE MINUTES AFTER CLOSING

  I glance at my watch. Three minutes after ten.

  God, how long have I been down here, staring at crates of mustard and bags of non-GMO kale chips? As if that will somehow erase the memory of my girlfriend’s words, still a tornado in my mind.

  Correction: my ex-girlfriend.

  I force my brain to shut the hell up and straighten from my slumped position against the wall. Cool damp has seeped into my shirt from the bedrock lining the basement where Becky just dumped me. The sickly feel of the fabric sends a shiver through me, and I untuck my stained work polo to give my skin some breathing room.

  Too bad all my problems aren’t as easy to fix.

  Stretching my spine, I roll my head. My neck and shoulders are definitely feeling the two hours’ worth of work I’ve done tonight, though not as bad as they’d be after a full shift. And it’s not over yet. I head toward the doorway and the creaky stairs beyond, skirting the trapdoor that leads to the sub-basement. After the crack it let out when Becky stood on it before, I’m not taking any chances on it holding my weight. I don’t need a broken leg to go with my busted life.

  “Hey, Scott. You okay down there?” Sylvie calls from the top of the storeroom stairwell. Not out of anger—she’s too much of a softy for that. But if she catches on that something’s up with me, it will be just like the time I showed up to work with my wrist wrapped in an ACE bandage; she gave me the worried-mom look for weeks, offering her ear if I wanted to talk. Offering to talk to my parents.

  “I just want to help, Scott,” she said, when I brushed her off for the umpteenth time.

  “If you want to help me, then keep giving me shifts. The more the better.”

  Her renewed worrying will just make the whole thing worse, which is the last thing I need tonight. First the crap going on at home. Then Becky. And the night is still young—plenty of time left for me to get run over by a car or abducted by aliens.

  “Yeah. Be right up!”

  “’Kay. You have a visitor. A special visitor.” The door swishes shut overhead, cutting off what sounds way too much like a giggle.

  Could it be Becky, back for round two? Nah, she’d storm right down here if she still had a piece of her mind left to sling my way. Whoever it is, I’ll deal with them, do my work like everything is fine, and then get out of here.

  I freeze halfway up the stairs.

  And where, exactly, do I think I’m going after work?

  Not home, that’s for sure. After this afternoon and my mom’s voice message, I’m not planning on walking through that door until at least two or three, when he’ll be out for the count.

  There’s still the party, but can I even go now?

  Yeah, I can go. If I want to make a scene. Becky’ll be raring to start something in front of everyone, especially once she downs a couple of those God-awful hard iced teas. I can see her now, just like the day we had the showdown over the prom. Becky in her cheer uniform, looking hot and cute, with her hip cocked, right hand on her waist. Sweet but feisty. Until you take in her expression. That’s where the venom shows.

  Have fun working all the time and still being broke.

  I don’t need that shit. Not Becky’s whatever face and definitely not my name, acid in her voice. I already got that enough times tonight.

  And what if she’s with someone else? Ricky Belsen, maybe.

  I shake my head. She wouldn’t do that, but still, plenty of guys would love a chance to get with her.

  My muscles turn to lead, heavy and slow, and my hands are twin twenty-pounders hanging at the ends of my arms. Any fight I had in me earlier is gone, along with what little stomach for celebration I’d managed to scrounge up. What do I have to celebrate anyway? It’s not like I’m allowed to make plans like everyone else. Do I really want to hang with all those drunk assholes as they go on and on about next year? Schools,
majors, frats. Sucking it up wasn’t so bad with Becky there to distract me, even if I was usually the only straight edge at the party, but no way I’m subjecting myself to that now.

  I’m tired of changing the subject when my friends start talking about plans for the future. How the hell do you explain sitting on three college scholarship offers just because you’ve got a messed-up family? Especially when that family would kind of prefer you go if only they didn’t need you to stay? That’s a question I’m not willing to answer. Not for anybody. Not even Winny.

  But if the party’s a no, then what? Doesn’t matter right now anyway. I’ve got a good half hour of work to look forward to. Plus my mystery visitor.

  I’d better get going. Everyone else will want to get out of here on a Friday night—like I did twenty minutes ago.

  My shitty life will still be there waiting when my shift is over.

  I plod the rest of the way up the stairs, but before I even reach the kitchen, I realize something is off.

  I pat my pocket. Damn. My phone is still down in the basement, tucked on the shelf between the plastic forks and knives for our take-out orders. Useless as the busted thing is, I turn back to grab it, but no more than three steps down, a scream stops me. Sylvie? I do a jump-spin combo, throwing out a hand to keep from tumbling backward down the stairs. Once I’m sure I’m not going to break my neck, I bolt the rest of the way up and through the door to the empty kitchen. Oscar and I cleaned up in here over an hour ago, when we stopped serving all but soup and pastries.

  Shouts. Bangs. Laughter, but not the good kind. Is Sylvie crying? My fists clench.

  “You slimy son-of-a-bitch!” That’s Oscar. “I don’t give a crap if he’s your brother!”

  “Oscar, no!” Sylvie shouts. “Ryan, please. No, Oscar, stay here! Don’t go near them. Please, everyone. Please, just stop!”

  A new voice speaks, but softly, and I can’t make it out. Everything on the other side of the door goes quiet, too quiet. Now, all I’m getting is mumbling. Can this day get any weirder?

  I peer through one of the windows set in the swinging doors, not sure I want to know what flavor of drama is happening out there. “Oh, shit,” I whisper, and my warm breath bounces off the glass back into my face.

  My special visitor is nowhere to be seen, unless it’s one of the three men blocking the way to the café entrance and the quiet street beyond. There’s Ryan, his blond hair and freckled complexion almost a perfect match to his sister’s. But who the hell are the other two? Something tells me they’re not here for a late-night scone. If they’re tight with Ryan, they’ve got to be asshats like him. Whatever went down between Sylvie and her brother in the past, it couldn’t have been pretty. His drop-ins, which have gotten more frequent lately, always end with Sylvie in tears, or in a screaming match between her and Oscar, who doesn’t like his brother-in-law any more than I do. The tension when Ryan worked here made every shift miserable. I know I wasn’t the only one who was glad when he left.

  How did Ryan and his friends even get in here? I check my watch. Nine minutes after closing. The doors should have been locked. Oh, right. That’s my job, and I’ve been in the basement, sulking.

  This little standoff isn’t looking like it’ll wrap up any time soon. I should just slip out the back door and jet. But I’m not done with my tasks for the night. If it hadn’t been for Becky and her bombshell, I’d be all finished and long gone. Now I’m stuck waiting for this family drama to play out.

  As if I don’t get enough of that at home.

  But I can’t leave Oscar and Sylvie alone to deal with this, and it’s some major shit, for sure. Sylvie’s in full-on sob mode. Oscar is behind the counter near the door to the kitchen, his back to me. The way he’s standing behind Sylvie, with his arms around her waist, brings me back to this afternoon, and memories of a power drill. Only one reason why Oscar would hold his wife that way: he doesn’t want her to run toward Ryan and his friends. He’s afraid she’ll run toward Ryan and his friends.

  The question is why.

  Ryan is ranting about something, but the words die before they reach the kitchen. Only his cold tone slices through the glass and wood. His friends flank him, a shorter guy who’s silent and still, and a tall, skinny dude who’s antsy as hell.

  What’s Ryan doing hanging out with those two, anyway? Forget the fact that he’s at least five years older than them; they look like he picked them up on the streets. Scabs and sores dot the taller guy’s sickly pale face, and he keeps shifting his weight from foot to foot and hiking up the jeans that hang off his narrow hips. The dude is seriously thin. The other guy—stockier, and way cleaner than the tall dude—wears a black leather jacket over a white tee and jeans, even though it’s warm enough outside for shorts. And he’s got on a pair of aviators, like no one told him the sun went down hours ago. He says something to Ryan, who shoots the guy a glance before returning his attention to his sister.

  This is all probably nothing, but best to hang tight, just to be sure. At least whatever’s going on will kill some time.

  “You heard me!” Ryan shouts, and I jump.

  Maybe I’ll be calling 911 today, after all. I grope for my phone again, but it’s still in the basement. I’m about to head back down to get it when Sylvie screams, “No, no! Please, don’t!”

  I pause and spin to peer through the window again. Everyone’s in motion. Oscar blocks my view of Ryan, but I’ve got a new angle on his friends. And what his friends have in their hands. Now I know why that dude needed a jacket on a warm June night.

  My stomach turns inside out and my heart slams to my ears as I stumble away from the door. “Oh, shit. Oh, motherfucking shit.”

  That’s when I hear the first gunshot.

  2

  SCOTT

  TWELVE MINUTES BEFORE CLOSING

  Scott stared at his girlfriend of the last six months. The hard line of her jaw. The raised eyebrow. The slight smile edging her sneer, like she was enjoying this, or at least part of her was.

  “Are you kidding me?” He rubbed his eyes. “I came in tonight because Josh will give me first dibs on next month’s shifts. I’ll let you pick my days off.” He reached for her elbow, but she jerked away.

  “Too little, too late,” she said. “This has been over for a long time. Maybe even before it started.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Let’s just say I’m tired of waiting around for you, okay? I’m frickin’ sick of this bullshit.” She pointed up toward the ceiling.

  “You mean my job? The way I earn money so we can do stuff?”

  “Oh, please. You give most of that to your mommy, and you know it.”

  How she could make that one word sound so ugly, he’d never guess.

  “I have to work, Becks. And yeah, I help my family out. You used to think that was noble.”

  “Well, I don’t. Not anymore.”

  “Fine, but not all of us are fortunate enough to have a father who pays for everything.”

  She lifted her chin and glared at him. “My parents prefer for me to focus on school.”

  “Yeah.” He laughed, an ugly sound. “School. Cheerleading. Dance committee. Yearbook—which, of course, you only joined so your pic would show up as often as possible.” If she was going to go there, he would hurl that shit right back at her.

  She put her hands on her hips and leaned in. “Is that what you think of me, huh?” She stomped her foot right on the trap door and it rattle-creaked. “You think I’m some spoiled, shallow, rich girl? Say it, Scott.” Another stomp, and the old plywood let out a protesting crack.

  “Careful!”

  She stumbled a few steps toward him. “What is that?”

  “Sub-basement. It’s a good fall if that thing gives. And it’s all tunnels down there, probably filled with rats. Who knows what else.”

  “I don’t get how you can stand this place. And don’t change the subject. Say it.” Her voice was low, dark.

  What
were they even talking about? It was too much, and he was finally cracking—maybe it hadn’t been the trapdoor making that sound, but something deep inside him, breaking. He’d known this day would come. Becky was just hurrying the process along.

  Still, she didn’t deserve to be insulted. “No,” he said, voice softening. “No, I don’t think those things, Becks.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  He couldn’t see the tears in her eyes, but they were there in her voice. He was such an asshole.

  “I’m sorry.” And he meant it. “Please, just come here.”

  He reached for her again, and this time she let him tuck her head under his chin. Her perfume called up a kaleidoscope of memories: parties, like the one they were supposed to go to tonight—those rare moments when he got to be a regular senior. Her scent, mixed with the less pleasant but perhaps more familiar odor of the old school heating ducts as he and Becky whispered together before homeroom. Sweet skin and silky blonde hair falling over his face and tickling his chest. Her lips.

  She’d said their relationship was over before it started. She was part right. If he asked himself, really pressed for the truth, could he say he loved her?

  Yes.

  But no, too.

  He loved her a little, as much as he could, but the beta version of the free app had never developed into the full, paid program. Sure, he was a sucker for her smiles and her perfume on the air. But there was no burning, no pull in his gut, no yearning for her nearness. No lost sleep. He’d wanted to love her the right way, had every expectation of losing himself in her. God, how he wanted to get lost. She’d been a bright glimmer that promised something better than everything else he was stuck with. So yeah, he’d been selfish and kept it up—because losing her was way worse than pretending. Because, even if he and Becky weren’t soulmates, their relationship was the one thing he got to have just for himself, and not because he owed it to anyone else.

  The one thing his family hadn’t ruined.

  The way they’d ruined his chances with Winny.

  For a moment, the ghost of Winny’s white puffy coat haunted his fingertips, and he was back there with her on his front stoop the day of the football game, the January cold prickling his nose. Until the heat of shame elbowed the icy memory away as it always did whenever he thought of the way her brown eyes had met his, full of questions and hurt, but not wavering, not even one tiny bit, as she’d waited quietly for him to explain himself. The gentlest of demands.