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 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 practically 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 A/V 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.