Page 36 of Bend & Break
I slide the cannoli box toward her, voice dropping. “I mean, dessert is nice and all, but I’d rather be eating you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Better men have tried.”
I swallow a mouthful of spaghetti. “I don’t doubt it.”
She shoves the box back at me, cheeks flushed even though her tone stays cool. “Eat your food, Keller, before I change my mind about sharing.”
I laugh, but the sound dies quickly.
I wipe my hands on a napkin and nod toward the laptop. “Ready to ruin dinner?”
Blake exhales through her nose, pushing her plate away. “Not really.” She leans forward anyway, setting her elbows on her knees.
I flip it open, the glow cutting through the room. Whatever lightness we had a minute ago disappears in an instant.
I queue up the file again, and Blake leans closer. Every muscle in me strains against the urge to wrap around her, to anchor her to me instead of this nightmare on the screen. We’ve already seen this once, already felt it crawl under our skin, but now it’s about studying. Picking it apart frame by frame.
The basement flickers back to life. My stomach knots, but I force myself to focus.
“There.” Blake points, finger hovering just above the trackpad. “Look at him.”
Not the one pacing, snapping orders—the other one, acting as if he’d rather vanish into the wall. Even with the mask, you can see it in his body. Restless. Twitchy. He keeps wringing his hands, shifting from foot to foot, shoulders hunched as if the fabric of the cape is choking him. Every time the guy barking orders moves his way, he flinches.
“Doesn’t look cut out for secrets,” I murmur, pausing the video. “Bet he’d fold the second someone leaned on him.”
Blake nods, certain. “He’s the weak link.”
I rewind a few seconds, slow the playback. The main guy’s body language is seemingly deliberate, every movement controlled, like he’s the one holding the strings. The others hover behind him, silent and stiff. But the one we’re focused on—he’s unraveling. Panic written in the restless twitch of his hands, the way he keeps tugging at the edge of his cape like it’s suffocating him. Every nervous tic screams liability.
Blake leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Wait—back it up. Right there.”
I tap the spacebar, frame by frame. The nervous one jerks, yanking the cape off in a rush. Underneath, his shirt flashes into view—black, with bold white lettering across the chest.
DEAD CHANNEL FILMS
Blake gasps, sharp and triumphant. “Could that be something?”
I hit the keys, screenshotting the logo before the camera shifts away. The still frame freezes on the screen, the words standing out stark against the grainy backdrop.
“Dead Channel Films,” I read aloud, frowning. “Yeah, that’s something. Could also explain why any of this is on video in the first place.”
Her brows pull together. “What is it? A YouTube channel?”
“Film company,” I say. “Local, too. They’ve plastered fliers all over campus the last few months looking for extras, crew.”
Blake tilts her head, studying the frozen image. “So maybe he works there.”
“Or he just likes their merch,” I counter, though my gut says otherwise. “Regardless, I think it’s worth looking into.”
She hums in agreement.
There’s a knock at the door—two short raps, no urgency.
Blake looks up from the laptop, shoulders snapping tight again. Her fingers pause over the keyboard, like she’s deciding whether to yank the drive out and hide it in her sock or just throw the entire laptop out the window.
I check the peephole.
Campus security again.
