Six Must Die, page 7
I inhale, but I’m not sure if it’s Santo’s comment or the cold air from the HVAC that stings.
“Did you figure out where that goes?” Tobias asks, crouching next to me and peering at the entertainment center.
I jump before curling my fingers around the DVD. “Um, no. Not yet,” I say, but Tobias is already pulling the disc from my hands. He feeds it into a hidden slot—crrrrrk—and shoots me a condescending look that seems to say, Are all women this stupid, or is it just you? Briefly, I consider leaning into the violent streak most journalists in Cedar Creek are convinced I possess and gifting him a second black eye. But then the TV flickers to life, and all the monstrous thoughts swirling through my mind dissipate.
It’s a video of the six of us. Grainy, black-and-white, time stamped. Me, Guinevere, Santo, Tobias, Charity, and Matt. Drooping clocks with wavering hands on the floral wallpaper. Tea party chairs adorned with silky bows. Sparkling cork-stoppered vials labeled DRINK ME and miniature plastic fruit tarts labeled EAT ME and in the center of a table, a teapot labeled OPEN ME. Malachi in the control room, like always, watching us over the blinking surveillance cameras.
Blood thrums in my ears. This is in-game footage of the night Matt died in Cedar Creek’s BREAKOUT: Wanderland escape room. Footage the James-Mays’ lawyers claimed didn’t exist when the lawsuit went to court. Footage that shouldn’t exist.
I don’t realize I’m shaking until Tobias puts his freckled hand on my arm and asks, “You okay, Steffi?”
“Are you?” I retort. “Look at the goddamn screen!”
I’m watching an echo of myself—a much happier, much healthier, much livelier echo—beam as Matt laughs at whatever joke I just told him. Behind him, Guinevere sneers as she jostles past us. In the background, Santo works with Charity and Tobias to read a laminated limerick about where to place six magnetic teacups in order to open the not-quite-ceramic set piece sitting in the center of the decadent fake food.
In the video, our Wanderland countdown passes 59:18. Inside Arsonist’s Revenge, the LCD screen is at 56:31.
Tobias turns toward the TV. “Santo,” he says, and the name is a command. “Gee. Charity. You need to come see this.”
I reach toward the TV, my trembling fingers meeting ice-cold glass. Behind me, there’s a muttered obscenity, and then movement in my periphery as Santo mumbles words I don’t understand into the walkie-talkie. Is he talking to Malachi or to himself? Does it matter? Why the fuck are we here?
The TV shuts off. My heart is pounding so fast, it feels like it’s going to explode. “Why did the video stop?” I whisper, my gaze flickering across the dark screen. My mirrored self stares back, wild-eyed, and I struggle to keep my lower lip from wobbling. If the girl in the lobby looked nervous but determined, the version of me reflected in the entertainment center looks terrified now.
“I don’t know if your cams caught that, Malachi,” Santo says, “but can you explain why the hell there’s a DVD from our Wanderland game inside Arsonist’s Revenge?”
Malachi’s response is immediate. “What? Shit, man. Listen. That’s not supposed to be in there.” There’s a rustling sound on the other end of the walkie, as if Malachi is flipping through a bunch of papers, but I’m not sure if I’m buying the act he’s selling. “The mannequin, sure, but otherwise… No, none of this is in my Game Bible. I don’t…”
Santo lifts the walkie closer to his burn-scarred mouth. “How is this here, Mal?” he asks. Despite his damaged vocal cords, every hoarse word is carefully enunciated. Practiced. Pointed. Pained.
“Better question: What did we just watch?” Guinevere shrieks. “Your parents claimed they lost everything in the fire!”
“I don’t know,” Malachi replies, the panicked edge in his voice unmistakable despite the walkie-talkie’s sputtering audio. “This isn’t… I didn’t set that up. It doesn’t—brrrt—make any sense.”
“If BREAKOUT uses a cloud-based software to back up its cameras, then I’d say it makes perfect sense,” Tobias responds coolly. “Your parents lied about losing the surveillance clips in the lawsuit. And you accessed the archival security data from our game to mess with us tonight, just like Cedar Creek Confessions accused you of doing with your videos on @Mal.The.Reel.King.”
I can’t stop shaking. First the Flex Foam body, and now this.
Charity’s eyes widen with shock; now, she looks more like a deer about to be pulverized by oncoming traffic. “Is that true, Malachi?” she asks. “Did you invite us here because of what happened to your family business… Because of what we did last year?”
Guinevere glares at Charity and flicks her wrist smoothly across her neck—the universal symbol for cut it out. But it’s too late. I snap my head up from the TV screen, my eyes narrowing on Charity’s flushed face. “Why? What did we do?”
“Nothing,” Charity says too quickly, her gaze darting first to Guinevere, then Santo, and finally Tobias before it settles on me. “We were cleared by Sheriff Stallard, Steffi. Remember?”
There’s a tense beat where we all stare at one another, and I realize my ex-friends are lying. They’re afraid of the footage because its existence proves whatever secrets they buried in the ashes of Cedar Creek’s BREAKOUT last spring didn’t burn along with Matt’s body—instead, they’re still out there. And if those secrets were caught on tape, then they might compose a case—an incriminating, damning, concrete case which could change the outcome of an ongoing lawsuit.
I suddenly feel lightheaded. Guinevere’s dad is a federal circuit judge. Charity’s mother is a member of the House of Representatives. Tobias’s parents own Matthews Farms, which supplies produce to several of our local grocery stores, and the Cesari twins’ mom manages Pizza Plus, a chain that has a lot of influence in the tri-county area. My parents are immigrants, and they don’t hold any local positions of power—except when I think about the trust Dad created to safely store my revenue from There’s No Escape until I graduate from high school, I realize they may wield more power than I think.
Jesus, my instincts were right—everyone in this room is hiding something. And even if this escape room is a setup—even if we’re being punished for what happened on the night my best friend died—playing the game means revealing the truth.
Which means my own win objective just changed.
“Malachi?” Santo asks. “Did your parents lie about the footage? Did you lure us here to make us pay?”
“I don’t—” Malachi’s voice cuts out before fading back in. “.… this—chrrkk—all. I’m going—skkkrzzz—come inside and reset your—okay? If it’s—chrk—I may need—chrrkkk—get help. Before I—brrrrrt—let me—back at my… at my… Game Bible…”
“Is he going to let us out of here?” Guinevere demands, grabbing for the walkie-talkie. This time, Santo smacks the hard shell of the device flush against his chest; Gee’s outstretched nails close around open air. “Is that what he just said?” Her hurricane eyes are wild. “Tell him not to go anywhere. Tell him to unlock the fucking door!”
Santo holds down the button. “Hey, Mal? Just come get us out of here, okay? Please. Come unlock the door.” A pause. “Can you hear me? Over.”
But there’s no response from the owner’s son.
Panic flares in my chest. Right now, I still have time to figure out the truth—the LCD screen is only at 53:43. But if Malachi lets us out of Arsonist’s Revenge early, then I’m never going to get answers. And I need answers. Not just because Matteo Luca Cesari was my best friend, but because Cedar Creek Confessions is back.
Because I need to know if one of us killed him.
“Tell him he’s, like, cutting in and out?” Charity tells Santo, the overhead floodlights glinting off her expensive pearl earrings. Santo hands her the walkie with a warning glance directed at Guinevere, and Charity raises it to her glossy lips. “Try speaking again, Malachi.” There’s another crackling sound, and her frown deepens. “We’re losing you.”
“I can’t do this,” Guinevere cries, retreating to the open space of the kitchenette. She whirls around, takes two steps forward on the dingy retro red-and-white diamond-shaped kitchen tile, and then falls back. My heart rate spikes just from watching her. “Why is he cutting out? What if he’s not coming?”
“He’s coming,” Santo says, but he doesn’t sound completely certain. Through the overhead speakers, prerecorded cicadas hiss and snap at each other. Guinevere is pacing restlessly now, her stiletto fingernails weaving in and out of her scalp.
She’s going to mess up her claw clips.
The thought is so absurd, I almost laugh, but the sound gets caught halfway up my throat. None of this is funny.
“We should give Malachi the benefit of the doubt,” Charity proposes. “Maybe he’s, like, having technical difficulties?”
“Oh yeah? And what about the fucking video we just saw, huh?” Guinevere snaps, stopping in front of the fridge. “Was that a technical difficulty, too?” She pauses, and my attention snags on her beautiful face as her nails unhook themselves from her hair. “What the hell,” she murmurs in a completely different voice, and for one dizzying second, I can’t place the emotion running through her voice. It’s so out of character for Guinevere, so unnatural, that a chill runs down my spine as soon as I identify it:
Fear.
“What?” I ask, trepidation coating the syllable. Guinevere doesn’t respond, though, so Santo straightens and strides over to her. So does Charity. And Tobias. And me.
She’s staring at a photograph stuck to the fridge with one of the ABC magnets. In it, Matt stands against Cedar Creek’s BREAKOUT photo wall with the six of us, his head thrown back in raucous laughter, his sharp face silhouetted against the freehanded lock-and-chain mural that decorated the local franchise of yesteryear. He’s wearing the trench coat. One of his arms is effortlessly slung atop my shoulders; the other is curled around Guinevere’s waist. Next to her, Santo grins with endearingly crooked teeth. Beside him, Tobias smiles awkwardly while Charity and Malachi throw up matching peace signs, completing a haphazard selfie with our typically behind-the-scenes Game Master at the forefront of the camera.
This is from the first escape room we ever did as a complete group. The one which kick-started our monthly tradition: Moonshine Cabin.
Guinevere tears the photograph off the fridge. “What the fuck is this?” she whispers. But next to her, Santo pales. “Flip it over,” he instructs. “There’s something written on the back.”
She does. Pauses. Glances up at me. Looks back down at the premium Kodak paper.
“Well?” Charity prompts.
“Six friends,” Guinevere reads, her voice trembling. “Six secrets. One hour to spill them…” She swallows. “Or everyone dies.”
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Posted by Lillie Snyder at 2:11 AM
My friends and I came here on a whim for a birthday party because Perfect Strike was closed, and we were so glad we did! None of us had ever done an escape room before, but our Game Master was super helpful and his hints let us break out of Ghost Pirate’s Curse with four minutes left on the clock. Give Malachi a raise, and THANK YOU SO MUCH BREAKOUT!
Response from BREAKOUT Escape Rooms Inc. at 8:22 PM
Thank YOU for coming, Lillie! We’re so glad you and your friends enjoyed Ghost Pirate’s Curse. We hope to see you again! —The James-Mays
Wednesday, May 20, 2026, 11:08 PM
I can’t believe it. Even as I stare at the threat on the back of the photograph, it doesn’t feel real. Except it is. It has to be, because so many other impossible things have happened recently. Because Cedar Creek Confessions is back online after an eleven-month-long hiatus. Because the allegedly lost footage of our Wanderland game exists, at least partially, inside Arsonist’s Revenge. Because, as Guinevere flips the photograph back over and I fight the anxiety-induced blockage growing in my throat, it’s clear there’s only one other person in the world who looks like Matt: dark eyes, warm sun-kissed skin, crooked half-smile.
And his pre-burn-scarred face is scratched out in the photo, along with all of ours.
“This,” Santo whispers. No mischievous light gleams in his dark brown eyes now; no sly grin curves his waxy mouth. There’s just his sharp-edged, ashen face. “This is…”
“Us.” Tobias grabs the other side of the photograph to steady Guinevere’s shaking hand while Charity’s fingers flutter to her open O mouth.
“Are you serious, Malachi?” Guinevere whirls around to bare her teeth at the security camera directly overhead. “This crossed a fucking line!”
The walkie-talkie remains silent, and nausea crawls its way up my clogged throat. Maybe Malachi is too embarrassed to speak on this part of our game. But maybe…
“It’s fine,” I say, surprised at how level my voice sounds. “It’s a prank. A mean-spirited one, sure, but it’s like the props we’ve encountered throughout past BREAKOUT games: The principal’s mug shot in Friday Night Lights that opened the safe containing our alleged criminal record. The ominous plaque in Museum Art Heist that told us which question to ask our live actor security guard in order to receive a skeleton key. The severed foam head hidden inside Moonshine Cabin that was only meant to distract us.”
For a second, I almost believe the lie.
“Is it?” Charity asks. She bites her lower lip. “Last year, we showed up to the Cedar Creek BREAKOUT to play Wanderland. An hour later, Malachi’s family business burned to the ground.” She fiddles with the end of one of her ash-blond braids. “And the threat on the back of this photograph? It’s personal. It’s here for a reason. It’s…”
“A warning,” Santo finishes. I dig my nails into my palms. Six friends. Six secrets. One hour to spill them, or everyone dies.
“Where is Malachi?” Guinevere demands. “He’s in the control room, right?”
A dark cloud passes over Tobias’s bruised face. “Didn’t he say he was coming to reset our game?” There’s a beat during which Charity audibly whimpers. “Wonder where he is.”
“Maybe he’s not coming at all,” I offer, my gaze locking back onto the fridge. My gut twists as I register the rest of the items stuck to its rusting surface. I recognize these.
THE TENNESSEE OBSERVER
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New details released in wake of local business fire: Caused by wiring issues, experts claim
Teenager dead after tragic escape room accident in Cedar Creek, Tennessee
Sevier County Daily: Single mother files lawsuit against BREAKOUT Escape Rooms Inc. for wrongful death of 17-year-old son; “I just want justice.”
Guinevere follows my gaze. “These are all about Matt,” she says. “These are all clippings of articles that came out in the weeks after he died.”
And suddenly, I can’t breathe. I’m suffocating, choking on emergency sirens and smoke and the smell of crackling flames, and there are too many eyes on me and the wood-paneled, gingham-curtained walls are closing in. Every story about Matt—the reports on the fire, the updates on the lawsuit, the obit his mom asked us all to contribute to before the funeral—is here, inside BREAKOUT. Names jump out without me looking: Stephanie Zamekova. Charity Adler. Tobias Matthews. Santo Cesari. Guinevere Mitchell-Moore. Malachi James-May. Matteo Cesari. Matteo Cesari. Matteo Cesari.
“Zamekova, you good?” Santo asks. His fingers alight on my shoulder, sending pins and needles through the leather of his brother’s trench coat, and I’m suddenly reminded of Tobias touching my arm earlier with a nearly identical question. Everyone keeps treating me like I’m about to break, and maybe I am, because all the newspaper headlines about my best friend are in here tonight: Matt dead at seventeen, because of the alleged criminal negligence of BREAKOUT Escape Rooms Inc. His mother, Illaria, suing the James-Mays in the months afterward. Congresswoman Adler publicly standing behind the family-owned business and then switching sides to join the lawsuit. Sheriff Stallard and his too-blue eyes and his lengthy investigation. The GoFundMe for the James-Mays’ legal counsel that raised over $50,000, thanks to Charity creating it and Malachi promoting it on his socials with a series of increasingly desperate videos. The badly cleaned windows at CCHS on the day we returned to school, where we could still read the spray-painted words: HE DESERVED IT. The drawn-out court battle and Santo’s disappearance and the reemergence of our school’s gossip account, Cedar Creek Confessions, exactly a month ago.
Don’t be pathetic. Don’t get stuck. Breathe.
“Yeah,” I rasp. The wood-paneled walls zoom out. Arsonist’s Revenge sharpens. I register the heavy car keys in my pocket, and the soft baby hairs on the nape of my neck, and the slightly damp I LOVE PRAGUE socks that I chose to rewear today instead of doing my laundry because pouring detergent is just one of the many tasks that is now monumentally difficult in the wake of Matt’s death. “Yeah, I’m good.”
I don’t know if it’s true. Santo doesn’t seem convinced, either, but he nods, his stringy yellow-blond hair flopping into his face, and steps away to give me space. When I refocus, though—when I can actually feel my body again—I realize that nestled among the recognizable clippings which used to swim against the backs of my eyelids on nights I’d wake up screaming, stuck to the bottom of the locked fridge with a NO PLACE LIKE HOME magnet, is one I’ve written. The final post from my blog.
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I almost died in an escape room fire. Now, authorities believe my friends and I set it.
Typing out the words to this post is surreal, but I don’t know what else to do. Over the past three years, I’ve turned my obsession for escape rooms into my life’s passion and chronicled the journey for the incredible community I’ve managed to build here. From compiling beginner-level game hacks through my list of rules for escaping to establishing partnerships with seventeen TERPECA-ranked rooms, this blog has allowed me to form lifelong friendships, build my self-confidence, and live out my dream of sharing my love for escape rooms with others.
