Six must die, p.1
Six Must Die, page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2026 by Victoria Wlosok
3D wire copyright © iStock.com/SpicyTruffel; burned paper © Nils Z/Shutterstock.com
Cover art copyright © 2026 by Sammy Yeun. Cover design by Gabrielle Chang.
Cover copyright © 2026 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Glass pattern, blood splatter, and dripping blood copyright © various contributors at Shutterstock.com; 3D wire copyright © iStock.com/SpicyTruffel
Interior design by Michelle Gengaro.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Wlosok, Victoria, author.
Title: Six must die / Victoria Wlosok.
Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2026. | Audience term: Teenagers | Audience: Ages 14 and Up | Summary: “A fractured group of friends fight to survive a killer escape room in rural Tennessee.”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2025023693 | ISBN 9780316510370 hardcover | ISBN 9780316511384 ebook
Subjects: CYAC: Escape room games—Fiction | Survival—Fiction | Mystery and detective stories | LCGFT: Thrillers (Fiction) | Novels
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.W617 Si 2026 | DDC [Fic]—dc23/eng/20250320
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2025023693
ISBNs: 978-0-316-51037-0 (hardcover), 978-0-316-51138-4 (ebook)
E3-20260207-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Matteo
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Charity
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Guinevere
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Santo
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Tobias
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Matteo
Chapter Nineteen
Matteo
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Steffi
Acknowledgments
Discover More
About the Author
To those grieving living people:
You are not alone.
And to all my ex-friends:
You’re lucky none of this actually happened to you.
Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.
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“So it’s caught up with us.”
—Lois Duncan, I Know What You Did Last Summer
“I want to play a game.”
—Jigsaw, the Saw franchise
UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT
EASTERN DISTRICT OF TENNESSEE
GREENEVILLE DIVISION
CATELYN ADLER; ILLARIA CESARI;
and EDWARD MITCHELL-MOORE,
Plaintiffs,
v.
RANDALL JAMES and TALIYAH MAY,
Defendants. Case No. 2:25-CR-00123-JRG-DCP
EXHIBIT A
Pre-Recorded Witness Testimony
Excerpt from Transcript of Witness Testimony
SHERIFF STALLARD: Okay, we’re recording. We have your consent
to record, correct?
[MULTIPLE VOICES OVERLAPPING IN UNISON]
Q. Hang on, slow down. I need the mic to pick you six up separately.
One more time—do we have your permission to record? Individual
answers with legal names, please. You, with the bright red hair. Do
you consent?
A. STEPHANIE ZAMEKOVA: Yes, I do. And I’m Stephanie
Zamekova, Sheriff. That’s Z-A-M-E-K-O-V-A.
SHERIFF STALLARD: Great, thank you. Let’s go down the line.
GUINEVERE MITCHELL-MOORE: Yeah. Guinevere Mitchell-Moore.
TOBIAS MATTHEWS: Tobias Matthews. And yes, but—
SANTO CESARI: Of course. Santo Cesari. Anything to help.
[SHORT PAUSE; SIRENS BLARING]
SHERIFF STALLARD: The mic doesn’t know you’re nodding,
sweetheart. I need verbal confirmation.
CHARITY ADLER: I’m… Charity. Charity Adler. And I consent, t-too.
MALACHI JAMES-MAY: Uh. I guess I’m last, so… Malachi James-
May. I also agree to be recorded, especially since… God, my
parents. Are they on their way?
SHERIFF STALLARD: One second, son, hold that thought… Today
is Wednesday, May 21, 2025. I’m Sheriff Travis Stallard, recording
outside a burned-down shopping center in downtown Cedar Creek,
Tennessee. The time is 12:23 AM. Now, listen… none of you are
being held here. You can leave at any time. And you don’t have to
answer a single one of my questions if you don’t want to. Correct,
Mr. Lewis?
MR. LEWIS: Correct.
SHERIFF STALLARD: This is an informal interview. We’re gathering
information—talking to emergency personnel, owners, primary
witnesses. The six of you fall into the last category, which is
why Mr. Lewis here is present as an independent supporter in
your interest while we wait for your parents to arrive on-scene. I
understand you all might be shaken, but we’re here to help.
TOBIAS MATTHEWS: Help? Please. You suspect we’re involved, so
just split us up already. Interrogate us. Make up evidence. Lie. Do
everything you’re allowed to do.
SHERIFF STALLARD: Well, we are going to split you up, son, but
as I’ve said, we’re simply collecting eyewitness testimony. I’m
going to get a sense of your whereabouts, see if I can get a handle
on tonight’s timeline, but this is a collaborative process. There’s no
need to stress over your responses—just be honest. Miss Zamekova?
STEPHANIE ZAMEKOVA: Yes?
SHERIFF STALLARD: I’d like to start with you.
[LONG PAUSE]
SHERIFF STALLARD: Okay. We’re at 12:27 AM, so why don’t we
take it from where we normally do?
Q. STEPHANIE ZAMEKOVA: And where would that be, Sheriff?
A. SHERIFF STALLARD: The beginning.
Wednesday, May 20, 2026, 10:51 PM
I’m kind of a pathetic person.
In front of me, the five cars of my estranged friends loom like silent giants, their metal bodies aglow in the mercurial vapor emanating from BREAKOUT Escape Rooms Inc.’s LED-lined storefront. I mentally check them off as I roll past: Guinevere’s glittering Mercedes. Tobias’s hatchback. A banged-up Chrysler that must be Santo’s sitting a little too close to Malachi’s smiling black-and-pink company minivan. I pull my rusted Jeep into the moon-silvered space next to Charity’s brand-new BMW and kill the engine.
Jesus. I can’t believe I came.
Midnight is just over an hour away. By now, every self-respecting business run by managers with a modicum of work-life balance in Friendship Springs, Tennessee—population 2,834—should be closed. Except BREAKOUT hasn’t been a self-respecting business for a while. And judging from the empty vehicles parked around me, we’re all here.
Wordlessly, I reach for the crisp invitation sitting atop my armrest console. It’s been there since I fished it out of my mailbox a week ago, piled in among IT’S NOT TOO LATE TO APPLY! college brochures, an overdue EMDR therapy bill notice from Call-Me-Diana, and a couple of graduation gift checks. I bite my bottom lip as I assess the cardstock for what feels like the hundredth time. There’s an xed-out smiley face on one side—BREAKOUT’s company logo—and bright pink words on the other.
READY TO PLAY AGAIN?
NEW LOCATION, SAME OLD RULES.
Wednesday, May 20 @ 11 PM.
Sevier County Plaza, Suite 263.
An escape room in honor of Matteo Luca Cesari.
Arrive 15 minutes early.
Because secrets won’t keep themselves.
“It’s a threat, right?” I ask Dr. Quack, the founding member of the rubber duck army currently wedged between my Jeep’s windshield and the dash. Talking to an inanimate bathtime object isn’t ideal, but as far as my hypnotherapist is concerned, there are worse mechanisms for coping with what I’ve been through—the divorce and everything that happened with Dad in the aftermath, my traumatic brain injury, the fallout of the horrible accident last spring—than asking a rubber duck doctor for a second opinion.
Besides, I know who sent this invitation. At the very least, I know who I want to have sent it. And with him here tonight… Well, that changes everything.
Dr. Quack side-eyes me from underneath his molded head mirror. He always looks like that, though, so instead of taking his MD skepticism to heart, I reassess the view ahead. Most of the storefronts in the strip mall are peppered with COMMERCIAL SPACE FOR LEASE signs; the businesses that are still operational include an obscure big-box retailer, a Chinese restaurant with faded menu photos plastered against its darkened windows, and an arcade that reminds me of the bowling alley I used to work at back in my hometown.
My fingers twitch with suppressed memory: Liberally applying FunkAway to disgusting synthetic foam insoles for $10.50 an hour. Holding my breath as Guinevere won a glow-in-the-dark rubber duck for me from the claw machine. Booing Charity for rolling every one of her strikes using the EZ-Bowler ramp. Listening to Malachi complain about incorporation paperwork over slices of too-greasy pizza. Watching Tobias realize he’s allergic to Red 40 after his first bite of said too-greasy pizza made him break out in hives. Soaking in Santo’s easy laughter every time Matt botched a spare. Editing blog posts on bathroom breaks.
After what happened last May, though, I stopped showing up to Perfect Strike until my manager stopped calling me in. Quiet-firing, my best friend would have called it. But that doesn’t matter now, because tonight I’m in Friendship Springs, and Friendship Springs is nothing like Cedar Creek.
Despite being only twenty-eight miles away, Friendship Springs is one of the exurban Sevier County offshoots whose businesses were left behind in the mad scramble to turn other parts of East Tennessee into glitzy tourist traps—Come climb North America’s longest tree-based skybridge at Anakeesta! Snap photos with shrunken human heads at Ripley’s Believe It or Not! Ride the Lightning Rod at a theme park dedicated to country music icon and local legend Dolly Parton!—which means the death throes of the American shopping center are visible in every razor-scraped, paint-peeling inch of this place. It looks defunct. Dismal. Depressing.
Except Suite 263, that is. It seems that not even the slow, steady creep of small-town deindustrialization can diminish the allure of BREAKOUT; from here, an enticing kaleidoscope of colors staccato through the franchise’s frosted glass windows: purple, yellow, red, blue.
I glance back at the card in my hands. Because secrets won’t keep themselves.
“It looks open,” I hedge, aware that I’m walking on eggshells. That I’m suggesting something dangerous. Dr. Quack stares at me silently in the neon-lit escape room’s glow. In response, I tuck a strand of bright red hair behind my industrial-pierced ear and stare at the sign pasted just below the company’s smiley-face window decal: THIS AREA IS SUBJECT TO CCTV SURVEILLANCE MONITORING.
God. Twelve months ago, this would all be routine: getting out of my car, walking toward the building, meeting up with the others in the air-conditioned lobby. Except we haven’t spoken to one another in a year, and our high school graduation is tomorrow, and there’s a not-insignificant part of me that wants to tear up the ominous cardstock invitation, hit play on Dad’s old Sawdust CD, and gun the engine until I’m back at home. This isn’t a good idea. The accident is still so raw for the six of us… and even without the gaps in my memory, my dreams are haunted enough by woodsmoke, burning flesh, and crackling bone for me to recognize a waking nightmare when I see one.
But I came here for answers, and the people who know me better than I know myself are already inside. So instead of hitting the gas and reversing out of the parking lot, the flapping soles of my broken Converse sneakers stay rooted to the Jeep’s footwell. I am here, in this moment, and I know what I need to do.
Don’t get stuck. Make a decision. Choose.
“Okay. Okay, okay, okay.” I press the backs of my palms into the skin under my brow bone and inhale, counting every second of the four it takes my lungs to expand. You’re already here. I hold it for seven. You already made the choice. I exhale for eight. You have nothing to lose. I lift my hands from my face and blink at the judgmental rubber duck militia. “I’m going.”
I slip the invitation into my leather trench coat, twist my keys out of the ignition, and hop onto the concrete of the parking lot. The arid air smells like gasoline, urine, and mid-May heat. I tip my chin to the starless sky; we’re overdue for a storm. In front of me, BREAKOUT strobes like a siren song. OPEN. OPEN. OPEN.
“Wish me luck,” I tell Dr. Quack as I lock the car. His unimpressed stare bores into my back as I shake out my hands to stave off the pre-room jitters, but I don’t let it faze me. I did it. I’m here.
And now, it’s finally time.
As soon as I step into the escape room lobby, a cold blast carrying the warring scents of nacho cheese, over-sprayed cologne, and shea butter lotion erupts goose bumps over my skin. I shiver, then pull my coat tightly over Dad’s worn the Killers T-shirt and count my inhalations in my head. It’s probably not a great sign that I’m already on edge, but it’s not like I have a choice. My point of no return was approximately a quarter gallon of gas ago.
To keep from spinning out, I turn my focus to the interior of Suite 263. The BREAKOUT Escape Rooms Inc. franchise of Friendship Springs, Tennessee, has the same lobby components as any other escape room business: a counter adorned with laminated QR codes linking to an online waiver; a row of shelves displaying an array of photo-ready props with slogans like WE (ALMOST) ESCAPED, TRUE DETECTIVE, and MY MOM SAID I WAS SMART; and a kiosk with the kind of branded garbage (logo-stamped shot glasses, hoodies, ugly vinyl stickers) that would immediately knock off a half star from the “Merchandise Offerings” rating on my blog. But I don’t run There’s No Escape anymore. And despite the tacky wares the company is peddling, the rest of BREAKOUT is effortlessly elegant: walls illuminated with color-changing LED strips. Dark black-and-pink-swirled epoxy floors complementing the midnight-black crushed-velvet couches pushed up against the tinted panels of an area labeled the Briefing Room. Neon signs depicting locks, keys, and chains in magenta, cyan, and indigo.
It’s slick. Cool. And nothing like the mom-and-pop vibe of the storefront I remember.
“We’ve rebranded,” the polo-clad teenager lounging behind the lobby counter offers over the ambient white noise of the ceiling HVAC unit. He takes a sip from his BREAKOUT-branded thermos before he nonchalantly looks up from his computer monitor, appraising me, and my entire body stiffens.
Malachi James-May looks the same way he always does—thick locs tied into a high ponytail, wireless earbuds sticking out of his ears, dorky black-rimmed glasses perched above his million-dollar grin—and even though it hurts to see him, his unchanged appearance is comforting. At least something here is still familiar.
“I can see that.” I don’t want to linger in the threshold, so I settle for shoving my hands in my pockets as I take a small step toward the counter. “I mean, this is a huge change, right? It looks nothing like the old one.”
The old one. It’s a quaint euphemism, especially when you consider the Cedar Creek BREAKOUT is now a smoothie and juice bar built on top of scorched earth, but I give it to him. Our Game Master can have it.
Malachi sets down his thermos. “That’s kind of the point, Z.” He spreads his dark-skinned arms. “Welcome to our flagship location. This is our prototype for investors and franchisees. Hopefully, there’ll be a BREAKOUT Escape Rooms Inc. in every state in the South before too long. As you may have noticed, we’ve made a lot of improvements: We have a new air filtration system, a redesigned website, and an up-and-coming social media presence, thanks to yours truly. You should drop us a follow—we’re @BreakoutEscape-RoomsTN on almost every platform.” Malachi nods to a custom-made sign hanging behind him. “Oh, and we’re also a PokéStop.”
