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.