“Hi,” Dodge said. His voice was a croak. He cleared his throat. “I was—am—I mean, we’re all sorry to hear—”
“Thank you, son.” Mr. Kelly’s voice was surprisingly clear. Dodge was glad he’d been interrupted, because he didn’t know what else he would have said. He was so hot he felt like his face was about to explode. He had the sudden, hysterical impulse to shout out: I was there. I was there when your son died. I could have saved him.
He took a deep breath. The game was wearing on him. He was starting to crack.
After what seemed like forever, Mr. Kelly’s eyes passed away from Dodge, back to his mother. “I should go, Sheila.” He stood up slowly. He was so tall he nearly grazed the ceiling with his head. “I’m going to Albany tomorrow. Autopsy’s done. I don’t expect any surprises, but . . .” He made a helpless gesture with his hands. “I want to know everything. I will know everything.”
Sweat was pricking up underneath Dodge’s collar. It might have been his imagination, but he was sure Mr. Kelly’s words were directed at him. He thought of all the Panic betting slips he’d been collecting this summer. Where were they? Had he put them in his underwear drawer? Or left them out on his bedside table? Jesus. He had to get rid of them.
“Of course.” Dodge’s mom stood too. Now all three of them were standing, awkwardly, like they were in a play and had forgotten their lines. “Say good night to Mr. Kelly, Dodge.”
Dodge coughed. “Yeah. Sure. Look, I’m sorry again—”
Mr. Kelly stuck out his hand. “God’s works,” he said quietly. But Dodge felt that when Mr. Kelly shook his hand, he squeezed just a little too hard.
That was the night Diggin went to a party down at the gully and ended up with a cracked rib, two black eyes, and one of his teeth knocked out. Derek Klieg was drunk; that was the excuse he gave afterward, but everyone knew it was deeper than that, and once the swelling in Diggin’s face went down, he told anyone who would listen how Derek had jumped him, threatened him, tried to get him to cough up the names and identities of the judges, and wouldn’t listen when Diggin insisted he didn’t know.
It was an obvious violation of one of Panic’s many unspoken rules. The announcer was off-limits. So were the judges.
Derek Klieg was immediately disqualified. He had forfeited his spot in the game, and his name was struck from the betting slips by morning.
And Natalie, the last player eliminated, was back on.
SATURDAY, JULY 30
heather
HEATHER WAS WOKEN BY SOMEONE RAPPING ON THE window. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, startled and momentarily disoriented. Sun was streaming through the windows of the Taurus. Dodge was watching her through the windshield.
Now that she was awake, everything came into sudden focus: the kiss with Bishop and its botched end; Natalie crying in the bathroom; and now Dodge watching her, taking in the rumpled sheet and beaten-up cups from Dairy Queen in the passenger seat, the chip bags and the flip-flops and the scattered clothing in the backseat.
Outside, Lily was barefoot and dressed in a bathing suit.
Heather opened the door and got out of the car. “What are you doing here?” She was furious with him. He had violated an unspoken agreement. When she had said, Don’t tell, she had also meant Don’t come back.
“I tried calling you. Your phone was off.” If he could see she was angry, he didn’t seem to care.
Her phone. She’d been powering down her phone as much as she could, since she could only charge it when she worked at Anne’s house. Besides, she didn’t need to see the texts from her mom. But she realized she’d brought it into Bishop’s kitchen last night to charge, and never retrieved it. Shit. That meant going back for it.
Heather had slept in her clothes—the same clothes she’d worn to Nat’s party, including a tank top with sequins. She crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s up?”
He passed her a folded piece of paper. The newest betting slip. “Nat’s back on. Derek was disqualified.”
“Disqualified?” Heather repeated. She’d only heard of someone being disqualified from Panic once before, years earlier—one of the players was sleeping with a judge. It later turned out that the guy, Mickey Barnes, wasn’t a judge, just pretending to be one so he could get laid. But it was too late. The player was replaced.
Dodge shrugged. Behind him, Lily had overturned their bucket of water and was making rivers out of the dirt. Heather was glad she wasn’t listening.
“Are you gonna tell her?” he asked.
“You can,” she said.
He looked at her again. Something shifted in his eyes. “No, I can’t.”
They stood there for a second. Heather wanted to ask him what had happened, but she felt too weird. She and Dodge weren’t exactly close—not like that, anyway. She didn’t know what they were. Maybe she wasn’t close with anyone.