Dead by Dawn

Chapter 1: Final Sale

The fluorescent lights of Crowley's Department Store had always reminded Rachel Crowley of an operating room—sterile, unforgiving, exposing every flaw. Tonight, with half the fixtures already dark and the remaining bulbs flickering their death rattles, the store looked more like a morgue.

She stood at the employee entrance, watching the last customers trickle out through the main doors two hundred feet away. An elderly woman clutched a shopping bag like a life preserver, glancing back at the EVERYTHING MUST GO signs with something like grief. Forty years of serving this community, and Crowley's was bleeding out its final hours in a clearance sale.

"You didn't have to come tonight."

Rachel turned to find her father standing behind her, his tie loosened, his face carrying the particular exhaustion of a man watching his legacy dissolve. Richard Crowley had inherited this store from his father, had raised Rachel in its aisles, had promised her she'd run it someday. Now there was nothing left to run.

"Someone from the family should be here," she said. "For the inventory."

"The inventory." He laughed without humor. "We're counting what's left so the creditors can pick our bones clean." He reached out, squeezed her shoulder. "Go home, sweetheart. Let the night crew handle it."

"I volunteered, Dad."

"I know. That's what worries me."

She didn't tell him the truth—that she needed to be here, needed to walk these floors one last time before the wrecking ball came. Her childhood was embedded in this building. The candy counter where her mother used to sneak her chocolates. The toy department where she'd played hide and seek with employees' kids. The security office where Frank Muller had let her watch the monitors, pretending she was a spy.

Frank. She spotted him now, making his rounds near the jewelry counter, his gray uniform stretched tight across his shoulders. He'd worked here longer than anyone—thirty-two years, her father had said. Thirty-two years of walking these same floors, watching the same doors, protecting merchandise that would soon be sold for pennies on the dollar.

"The crew's gathering in the break room," her father said. "Six volunteers, plus Frank for security. I'll be back at dawn to let you out."

"Let us out?"

"Fire code. Frank's going to lock the place down at eleven—no one in or out until morning. Keeps the building secure while you work." He must have seen something in her expression because he added, "It's standard procedure for overnight inventory. We've done it for years."

Rachel nodded, though something about the phrase "no one in or out" settled into her stomach like a stone.

Her father kissed her forehead—something he hadn't done since she was twelve—and walked toward the exit. She watched him go, this man who had given forty years to a building that was about to become a parking lot, and felt the familiar mix of love and resentment that had defined their relationship for as long as she could remember.

The break room was on the second floor, tucked between Ladies' Formal Wear and the abandoned portrait studio. Rachel climbed the frozen escalator—they'd shut it down weeks ago to save on electricity—and made her way through racks of discounted dresses that hung like deflated ghosts.

She heard them before she saw them: laughter, the crack of a beer can opening, someone's phone playing music too loud.

"—telling you, man, this place is haunted as hell. You know how many people have died here?"

"Pete, literally no one has died here."

"That's what they want you to think."

Rachel pushed open the break room door to find five faces turning toward her. She recognized most of them—employees she'd seen during her occasional visits to check on the store's decline.

Pete Morrison sat backward in a folding chair, his Crowley's polo untucked and his hair looking like he'd just rolled out of bed. Beside him, Wendy Chen was already shaking her head at whatever he'd been saying, her practical ponytail and no-nonsense expression marking her as the sensible one. They were always together, Pete and Wendy—not dating, Rachel had gathered, just bound by the particular friendship that forms between people stuck in dead-end jobs.

"Miss Crowley." Nicole Washington stood up from the table, smoothing her perfectly pressed blouse. She was the assistant manager, Rachel remembered—young, ambitious, probably should have jumped ship years ago but had stayed out of loyalty or stubbornness or some combination of both. "We weren't sure you were actually coming."

"Rachel, please." She grabbed a folding chair and joined them at the table. "And I wouldn't miss it. Last night of Crowley's—someone has to document the autopsy."

In the corner, George Patterson looked up from his crossword puzzle and offered her a gentle smile. He had to be pushing seventy, a stockman who'd worked the back rooms since before Rachel was born. His hands were gnarled with arthritis, but his eyes were sharp. "Your grandmother hired me," he said. "Did you know that? 1979. I was nineteen years old."

"I remember," Rachel said. "She always said you were the only one who could organize the Christmas inventory without losing your mind."

George's smile widened. "She was a good woman, your grandmother."

The last member of the crew sat apart from the others, scrolling through his phone with the disinterest of someone who'd rather be anywhere else. He was young—early twenties, maybe—with the kind of generic good looks that made him hard to remember.

"That's Tyler," Pete said, following her gaze. "New hire. Been here, what, three weeks?"

"Two," Tyler said without looking up.

"Two weeks. Just in time to help us count the corpse." Pete grinned and raised his beer can. "To Crowley's. May she rest in pieces."

"You're not supposed to drink on shift," Nicole said.

"What are they gonna do, fire me?"

Wendy snorted. "He's got a point."

Rachel checked her watch. 10:47. Thirteen minutes until Frank locked them in. Thirteen minutes until the final inventory of Crowley's Department Store officially began.

She should have felt sad. This place held her memories, her family's legacy, forty years of community service reduced to clearance tags and bankruptcy filings. But sitting here with these strangers—these people who had given their labor to her family's dying dream—Rachel felt something else entirely.

She felt watched.

The sensation prickled at the back of her neck, and she turned toward the break room's single window. It looked out over the sales floor below, a sea of empty display cases and picked-over merchandise. Nothing moved in the shadows between the racks.

But for just a moment, she could have sworn she saw a figure standing near the escalators. Gray uniform. Broad shoulders. Watching.

Then the lights flickered, and when they steadied, the figure was gone.

"Attention, associates." The intercom crackled to life, Frank's voice echoing through the empty store. "The store is now closed. Please report to your assigned sections for inventory. Exits will be secured in ten minutes."

Nicole stood, all business. "All right, everyone. You know your sections. George, you've got the stockroom. Pete and Wendy, Sporting Goods and Housewares. Tyler, you're with me in Electronics. Rachel..." She hesitated. "I wasn't sure where to put you."

"I'll float," Rachel said. "Help wherever I'm needed."

"Sounds good." Nicole gathered her clipboard and headed for the door. "Let's get this done. I want to be out of here by dawn."

One by one, they filed out of the break room, disappearing into the darkened store like actors taking their marks for a play Rachel didn't remember auditioning for.

She was the last to leave. At the door, she paused, looking back at the empty table, the scattered beer cans, the crossword puzzle George had left behind.

Seven across: A feeling of impending doom. Nine letters.

She didn't need to count. She already knew the answer.

Foreboding.