“The game?” Anne squinted at Heather like she’d never seen her before. “The game?”
“Panic,” Heather said. Her voice was hoarse. “I opened the gates. . . . I must have forgotten to lock them again.”
For a second, Anne was silent. Her face was awful to see: white and ghastly. Horrified.
“But I was the one who told her to do it,” Bishop said suddenly. “It’s my fault.”
“No.” Heather was embarrassed that Bishop felt he had to stand up for her, even as she was grateful to him. “He had nothing to do with it.”
“I did.” Bishop’s voice got louder. He was sweating. “I told her to do it. I told all of them to do it. I started the fire at the Graybill place. I’m the one . . .” His voice broke. He turned to Heather. His eyes were pleading, desperate. “I’m a judge. That’s what I wanted to tell you. That’s what I wanted to explain. What you saw the other day, with Vivian . . .”
He didn’t finish. Heather couldn’t speak either. She felt like time had stopped; they were all transformed to statues. Bishop’s words were sifting through her like a snow, freezing her insides, her ability to speak.
Impossible. Not Bishop. He hadn’t even wanted her to play. . . .
“I don’t believe it.” She heard the words, and only then realized she was speaking.
“It’s true.” Now he turned back to Anne. “It wasn’t Heather’s fault. You have to believe me.”
Anne brought her hand briefly to her forehead, as though pressing back pain. She closed her eyes. Lily was still standing several feet away, shifting her weight, anxious and silent. Anne opened her eyes again. “We need to call the police,” she said quietly. “They’ll need to put out the alert.”
Bishop nodded. But for a second no one moved. Heather wished Anne would yell—it would be so much easier.
And Bishop’s words kept swirling through her: I told her to do it. I told all of them to do it.
“Come on, Lily,” Anne said. “Come inside with me.”
Heather started to follow them into the house, but Anne stopped her. “You wait out here,” she said sharply. “We’ll talk in a bit.”
Her words brought little knife-aches of pain to Heather’s stomach. It was all over. Anne would hate her now.
Lily shot Heather a worried glance and then hurried after Anne. Bishop and Heather were left standing alone in the yard, as the sun pushed through the clouds and the day transformed into a microscope, focusing its heat.
“I’m sorry, Heather,” Bishop said. “I couldn’t tell you. I wanted to—you have to know that. But the rules—”
“The rules?” she repeated. The anger was bubbling up from a crack opening inside her. “You lied to me. About everything. You told me not to play, and all this time—”
“I was trying to keep you safe,” he said. “And when I knew you wouldn’t back down, I tried to help you. Whenever I could, I tried.” Bishop had moved closer and his arms were out—he was reaching for her. She took a step backward.
“You almost got me killed,” she said. “The gun—if it wasn’t for Dodge—”
“I told Dodge to do it,” Bishop cut in. “I made sure of it.”
Click-click-click. Memories slotted together: Bishop insisting on taking the shortcut that led past Trigger-Happy Jack’s house. The fireworks at the Graybill house on the Fourth of July, which Bishop made sure she would see. A clue: fire.
“You have to believe me, Heather. I never meant to lie to you.”
“So why did you do it, Bishop?” Heather crossed her arms. She didn’t want to listen to him. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to give in to the black tide, let it suck away all her other thoughts—about the tigers, about how badly she had disappointed Anne, about how she would be homeless again. “What did you need to prove so badly, huh?” More parts of her were flaking off. Crack. “That you’re better than us? Smarter than us? We get it, okay? You’re leaving.” Crack. “You’re getting out of here. That makes you smarter than the whole fucking rest of us put together.”
Bishop’s mouth was as thin as a line. “You know what your problem is?” he said quietly. “You want everything to be shitty. You have a sister who loves you. Friends who love you. I love you, Heather.” He said it fast, in a mumble, and she could not even be happy, because he kept going. “You’ve outlasted almost everyone in Panic. But all you see is the crap. So you don’t have to believe in anything. So you’ll have an excuse to fail.”
Crack. Heather turned around, so if she started crying again, he wouldn’t see. But she realized she had nowhere to go. There was the house, the high bowl of the sky, the sun like a laser. And she, Heather, had no place in any of it. The last bits of her broke apart, opened like a wound: she was all hurt and anger. “You know what I wish? I wish you were gone already.”