Authors: Lauren Oliver
HEATHER DIDN’T RETURN TO METH ROW. IT WAS CONVENIENT, in some ways, but there was no privacy in it, now that Dodge knew where she was. She didn’t want him to be spying on her, seeing how she was living, maybe running his mouth about it.
Heather had been careful, thus far, to move the car only in the middle of the night, from parking lot to empty road to parking lot, when there was less danger of being spotted. She’d developed a routine: on work days, she set her alarm for four a.m., and, while Lily was still sleeping, headed through the ink-black to Anne’s house. She had found a break in the trees just off the driveway where she could park. Sometimes she slept again. Sometimes she waited, watching the black begin to blur and change, turning first to smudgy dark, then sharpening and splitting, peeling off into vivid purple shadows and triangles of light.
She tried very hard not to think about the past, or what was going to happen in the future, or anything at all. Later, when it was almost nine, she’d walk up to the house, telling Anne that Bishop had dropped her off. Sometimes Lily came with her. Sometimes she stayed in the car, or played in the woods.
Twice, Heather had arrived early and chosen to bathe, sneaking through the woods to the outdoor shower. Then she’d stripped, shivering in the cool air, and stepped gratefully under the stream of hot water, letting it run in her mouth and eyes and over her body. Otherwise, she’d been making do with a hose.
Heather had to stop herself from fantasizing about running water, microwaves, air conditioners and refrigerators and toilets. Definitely toilets. It had been two weeks since she’d left her mom’s, and she’d gotten two mosquito bites on her butt while peeing at six a.m. and eaten more cold canned ravioli than she could stomach.
What she wanted to do was make it to Malden Plaza, where they’d crossed the highway—to that vast, impersonal parking lot with only a few streetlamps. Truckers came on and off the highway all the time, and cars stayed in the lot overnight. There was a McDonald’s, and public restrooms, with showers for the truckers who passed through.
First they needed gas. It wasn’t yet dark, and she didn’t want to stop in Carp. But she’d been running on fumes for almost twenty-four hours, and she didn’t want to break down, either. So she pulled into the Citgo on Main Street, which was the least popular of the three gas stations in town because it was the most expensive and didn’t sell beer.
“Stay in the car,” she told Lily.
“Yeah, yeah,” Lily mumbled.
“I’m serious, Billy.” Heather wasn’t sure how long she could take this: the sniping, the back-and-forth. She was losing it. Cracking up. Grief had its hands around her neck; she was being choked. She kept seeing Vivian sipping from Bishop’s mug, her black hair hanging in wisps around a pretty, moon-white face. “And don’t talk to anybody, okay?”
She scanned the parking lot: no police cars, no cars she recognized. That was a good sign.
Inside, she put down twenty dollars for gas and took the opportunity to stock up on whatever she could: packages of ramen soup, which they would eat dissolved in cold water; chips and salsa; beef jerky; and two fresh-ish sandwiches. The man behind the counter, with a dark, flat face and thinning hair slicked to one side, like weeds strapped to his forehead, made her wait for change. While he counted singles into the register, she went to the bathroom. She didn’t like standing under the bright lights of the store, and she didn’t like the way the man was looking at her either—like he could see through to all her secrets.
While she was washing her hands, she dimly registered the jangle of the bell above the door, the low murmur of conversation. Another customer. When she left the bathroom, he was blocked from view by a big display of cheap sunglasses, and she was almost at the counter before she noticed his uniform, the gun strapped to his hip.
A cop.
“How’s that Kelly business going?” the man behind the counter was saying.
The cop—with a big belly pushing out over his belt—shrugged. “Autopsy came in. Turns out Little Kelly didn’t die in that fire.”
Heather felt like something had hit her in the chest. She tugged her hood up and pretended to be looking for chips. She picked up a package of pretzels, squinted at it hard.
“That right?”
“Sad story. Looks like OD. He’d been taking pills since he came back from the war. Probably just went to that Graybill house for a nice warm place to get high.”
Heather exhaled. She felt an insane, immediate sense of relief. She hadn’t realized, until now, that she had held herself accountable, at least a little bit, for his murder.
But it wasn’t murder. It hadn’t been.
“Still, someone started that fire,” the cop said, and Heather realized she’d been staring at the same package of pretzels for several seconds too long, and now the cop was staring at her. She shoved the pretzels back on their rack, ducked her head, and headed for the door.
“Hey! Hey, miss!”
She froze.
“You forgot your groceries. I got change for you too.”
If she bolted, it would look suspicious. Then the cop might wonder why she’d freaked. She turned slowly back to the counter, keeping her eyes trained on the ground. She could feel both men staring at her as she collected the bag of food. Her cheeks were hot, and her mouth felt dry as sand.
She was almost at the door again, almost in the clear, when the cop called out to her.
“Hey.” He was watching her closely. “Look at me.”
She forced her eyes up to his. He had a pudgy, doughlike face. But his eyes were big and round, like a small kid’s, or an animal’s.
“What’s your name?” he said.
She said the first name that came to her: “Vivian.”
He moved gum around in his mouth. “How old are you, Vivian? You in high school?”
“Graduated,” she said. Her palms were itching. She wanted to turn and run. His eyes were traveling her face quickly, like he was memorizing it.
The cop took a step closer to her. “You ever heard of a game called Panic, Vivian?”
She looked away. “No,” she said in a whisper. It was a stupid lie, and immediately she wished she’d said yes.
“I thought everybody played Panic,” the cop said.
“Not everyone,” she said, turning back to him. She saw a spark of triumph in his eyes, as though she’d admitted to something. God. She was messing this up. The back of her neck was sweating.
The cop stared at her for a few more beats. “Go on, get out of here,” was all he said.
Outside, she took a few deep breaths. The air was thick with moisture. A storm was coming—a bad one too, judging from the sky. It was practically green, like the whole world was about to get sick. She shoved her hood back, letting the sweat cool off her forehead.
She jogged across the parking lot to the pump.
And stopped.
Lily was gone.
There was a resonant
boom
, a sound so loud she jumped. The sky opened up, and rain hissed angrily against the pavement. She reached the car just as the first fork of lightning tore across the sky. She jiggled the door handle. Locked. Where the hell was Lily?
“Heather!” Lily’s voice rang out over the rain.
Heather turned. A cop was standing next to a blue-and-white patrol car. He had his hand around her sister’s arm.
“Lily!” Heather ran over, forgetting to be worried about cops or being careful. “Let go of her,” she said.
“Calm down, calm down.” The cop was tall and skinny, with a face like a mule. “Everyone be calm, okay?”
“Let go of her,” Heather repeated. The cop obeyed, and Lily barreled over to Heather, wrapping her arms around Heather’s waist, like she was a little kid.
“Hold on now,” the cop said. Lightning flashed again. His teeth were lit up, gray and crooked. “I just wanted to make sure the little lady was okay.”
“She’s fine,” Heather said. “We’re fine.” She started to turn away, but the cop reached out and stopped her.
“Not so fast,” he said. “We still got a little problem.”
“We didn’t
do
anything,” Lily piped up.
The cop squinted at Lily. “I believe you,” he said, his voice a little softer. “But that right there”—and he pointed to the beat-up Taurus—“is a stolen car.”
The rain was coming down so hard, Heather couldn’t think. Lily looked sad and extra skinny with her T-shirt sticking to her ribs.
The cop opened the back door of the squad car. “Go on and get in,” he said to Lily. “Dry off.” Heather didn’t like it—she didn’t want Lily anywhere near the police car. That’s how they got you: they were nice, and they lured you into thinking you were safe, and then they flipped the tables without warning. She thought of Bishop and felt her throat squeeze. That was how everyone got you.
But Lily had scooted inside before Heather could say,
Don’t
.
“How about we go somewhere and talk?” the cop said. At least he didn’t sound mad.
Heather crossed her arms. “I’m fine,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t see her shiver. “And I didn’t steal that car,” she said. “It’s my mom’s car.”
He shook his head. “Your mom said you stole it.” She could barely hear him over the rain. “You got quite the setup in the backseat. Food. Blankets. Clothes.” A bead of rain rolled off the tip of his nose, and Heather thought he looked almost as pathetic as Lily had.
She looked away. She felt the need to tell, to spill, to explain, swelling like a balloon inside her chest, pressing painfully against her ribs. But she just said, “I’m not going home. You can’t make me.”
“Sure I can.”
“I’m eighteen,” she said.
“With no job, no money, no home,” he said.
“I have a job.” She knew she was being stupid, stubborn, but she didn’t care. She’d promised Lily they wouldn’t go back, and they wouldn’t. Probably if she told on her mom, told about the partying and the drugs, she wouldn’t have to go back. But maybe they’d stick her mom in jail and put Lily in some home with strangers who didn’t care about her. “I have a good job.”
And suddenly it occurred to her: Anne.
She looked at the cop. “Don’t I get one phone call or something?”
For the first time, he smiled. But his eyes were still sad. “You’re not under arrest.”
“I know,” she said. She was suddenly so nervous, she felt like she would puke. What if Anne didn’t care? Or worse, sided with the police? “But I want my phone call, just the same.”
DODGE HAD ONLY MADE IT HALFWAY HOME WHEN THE sky split open and it began to pour. Just his fucking luck. Within a few minutes, he was totally soaked. A car passed, blaring its horn, sending a fierce spray of water across his jeans. He was still two miles from home.
He was hoping the storm would let up, but it got worse. Lightning ripped across the sky, quick flashes that gripped the world in a weird green glow. Water accumulated fast in the ditches, driving leaves and paper cups onto his shoes. He was practically blind; he couldn’t see the oncoming traffic until it was nearly on top of him.
He realized, suddenly, that he was only a few minutes away from Bishop’s. He turned off the road and started jogging. With any luck, Bishop would be home, and he could wait it out or bum a ride.
But when he came up the driveway, he saw the whole house was dark. Still, he went up to the porch and knocked on the front door, praying that Bishop would answer. Nothing.
He remembered the back porch was screened in, and circled the house through the slog of mud. He banged his shin against an old lawn mower and went stumbling forward, nearly face-planting, cursing.
The screen door was, of course, locked. He was wet and so miserable he briefly considered punching a hole through it—but then lightning bit through the sky again, and in that half second of unnatural brightness, he saw a kind of gardening shed, a little ways back and half obscured by the trees.
The door to the shed was protected by a padlock, but Dodge had his first bit of luck: the lock wasn’t actually in place. He pushed into the shed and stood shivering in the sudden dryness and coolness, inhaling the smell of wet blankets and old wood, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He couldn’t see shit. Just outlines, dark objects, probably more junk.
He pulled out his cell phone for light and saw the battery was almost out. He couldn’t even call Bishop and ask where he was and when he would be home. Great. But at least in the glow of the screen he could make a better scan of the shed, and he was surprised to see that it was actually wired: a plain bulb was screwed into the ceiling, and there was a switch on the wall, too.
The bulb was dim, but it was better than nothing. Immediately he saw that the shed was better organized than he’d thought. Certainly cleaner than the junkyard. There was a stool and a desk and a bunch of shelves. A bunch of betting slips, water-warped and weighted down with a metal turtle, were piled on the desk.
Next to the betting slips was a pile of old AV and recording equipment, and one of those cheap pay-per-use cell phones, the kind that required no subscription.
His second piece of luck: the cell phone powered on and didn’t require a password.
He looked in his contacts for Bishop’s cell phone number and managed to retrieve it just before his cell went dead.
He thumbed it into the keypad of the cell phone he’d found and listened to it ring. Five times, then Bishop’s voice mail. He hung up without leaving a message. Instead he flipped over to the texts, planning to shoot off a 911 to Bishop. He had to come home sometime. Where could he be in this weather, anyway?
And then: he froze. The driving of the rain on the roof, even the weight of the cell phone—all of it receded, and he saw only the words of the last outgoing text.
Time to go solo. Tomorrow night we’ll see what you’re really made of.
He read it again, and a third time.
The feeling returned in a rush.
He scrolled down. More texts: instructions for the game. Messages to other players. And at the very bottom, a text to Heather’s number.
Quit now, before you get hurt.
Dodge replaced the phone carefully, exactly where it had been. Now everything looked different: recording equipment. Cameras. Spray paint stacked in the corner, and plywood leaning against the shed walls. All the stuff Bishop had needed for the challenges.
A half-dozen mason jars were lined up on one shelf; he bent down to examine them and then cried out, stumbling away, nearly upsetting a stack of plywood.
Spiders. The jars were full of them—crawling up the glass, dark brown bodies blurring together. Meant for him, probably.
“What are you doing here?”
Dodge spun around. His heart was still beating hard; he was imagining the feel of a hundred spiders on his skin.
Bishop was standing in the doorway, totally immobile. The storm was still raging behind him, sending down sheets of water. He was wearing a hooded rain poncho, and his face was in shadow. For a second, Dodge was truly afraid of him; he looked like a serial killer in some bad horror movie.
Dodge had a sudden flash of clarity: this was what the game was really about. This was what true fear was—that you could never know other people, not completely. That you were always just guessing blind.
Then Bishop took another step into the shed, shoving off his hood, and the impression passed. It was just Bishop. Some of Dodge’s fear eased too, although his skin was still prickling, and he was uncomfortably aware of the spiders in their thin glass jars, only a few feet away.
“What the hell, Dodge?” Bishop burst out. His fists were balled up.
“I was looking for you,” Dodge said, raising both hands, just in case Bishop was thinking of swinging at him. “I just wanted to get out of the rain.”
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” Bishop insisted.
“It’s all right,” Dodge said. “I know, okay? I already know.”
There was a minute of electric silence. Bishop stared at him. “Know what?” he said at last.
“Come on, man. Don’t bullshit,” Dodge said quietly. “Just tell me one thing: why? I thought you hated Panic.”
Dodge thought Bishop might not answer, might still try to deny the whole thing. Then his body seemed to collapse, like someone had pulled the drain in his center. He tugged the door closed behind him, then sagged into the chair. For a moment, he sat with his head in his hands. Finally he looked up.
“Why did you play?” he asked.
Revenge,
Dodge thought, and
Because I have nothing else
. But out loud he said, “Money. Why else?”
Bishop gestured wide with his hands. “Same.”
“Really?” Dodge watched him closely. There was a look on Bishop’s face he couldn’t identify. Bishop nodded, but Dodge could tell he was lying. It was more than that. He chose to let it go.
Everyone needed secrets.
“So what now?” Bishop asked. He sounded exhausted. He looked exhausted too. Dodge realized how much it must have weighed on him this summer—all the planning, all the lies.
“You tell me,” Dodge said. He leaned back against the desk. He was feeling slightly more relaxed, and grateful that Bishop was positioned so that he could no longer see the spiders.
“You can’t tell Heather,” Bishop said, sitting forward, suddenly wild. “She
can’t
know.”
“Calm down,” Dodge said. His mind was ticking forward, already adjusting to the new information, thinking of how he could use it. “I’m not going to tell Heather. But I’m not going to do the solo challenge either. You’re just going to say I did.”
Bishop stared at him. “That’s not fair.”
Dodge shrugged. “Maybe not. But that’s how it’s going to go.” He wiped his palms on his jeans. “What were you planning to do with those spiders?”
“What do you think?” Bishop sounded annoyed. “All right. Fine. You’ll go straight to Joust. Okay?”
Dodge nodded. Abruptly, Bishop stood up, kicking the chair so it scootched forward a few inches. “Jesus. Do you know, I’m actually kind of glad you found out? I was almost hoping you would. It’s been awful. Fucking awful.”
Dodge didn’t say anything stupid, like that Bishop could have said no when he was approached about being a judge.
So he just said, “It’ll be over soon.”
Bishop was pacing. Now he whirled around to face Dodge. Suddenly he seemed to fill the whole space. “I killed him, Dodge,” he said, choking a little. “I’m responsible.”
A muscle flexed in Bishop’s jaw; it occurred to Dodge that he was trying not to cry. “It was part of the game.” He shook his head. “I never meant to hurt anyone. It was a stupid trick. I lit some papers in a trash can. But the fire got out of control so quick. It just . . . exploded. I didn’t know what to do.”
Dodge felt a brief moment of guilt. Earlier tonight, when he’d gone off on Dayna about Bill Kelly, he hadn’t been thinking of Little Kelly at all. And about how awful his father must feel. “It was an accident,” he said softly.
“Does it matter?” Bishop asked. His voice was strangled. “I should go to jail. I probably will.”
“You won’t. Nobody knows.” It occurred to Dodge, though, that Bishop must have a partner. There were always at least two judges. He knew that Bishop wouldn’t tell him if he asked, though. “And I won’t say anything. You can trust me.”
Bishop nodded. “Thanks,” he whispered. Again, the energy seemed to leave him at once. He sat down again and put his head in his hands. They stayed like that for a long time, while the rain drummed on the roof, like fists beating to get in. They stayed until Dodge’s leg started to get numb where he was leaning on it, and the noise of the rain receded slightly, and became the light scratching of nails.
“I have a favor to ask you,” Bishop said, looking up.
Dodge nodded.
Bishop’s eyes flashed: an expression gone too quickly to interpret. “It’s about Heather,” he said.