Panic(35)

“Don’t worry, Heather,” Bishop said quietly. He reached out and took her hand; she was startled by the softness of his touch, by the slow warmth that radiated from his fingertips through her body. “I’ll stay with you.”

I love you. She thought the words suddenly; this urge, like the earlier urge to cry, she had to will down.

“Me too,” Nat said loyally.

“Heather needs to rest,” Mrs. Velez said. She was still smiling, but the corners of her eyes were creased with worry. “Do you remember what happened last night, honey?”

Heather tensed. She wasn’t sure how much she should say. She looked to Nat and Bishop for cues, but both of them avoided her eyes. “Most of it,” she said cautiously.

Mrs. Velez was still watching her extra carefully, as if she were worried Heather might suddenly crack apart, or begin bleeding from the eyeballs. “And do you feel up to talking about it, or would you rather wait?”

Heather’s stomach began to twist. Why wouldn’t Bishop and Nat look at her? “What do you mean, talking about it?”

“The police are here,” Bishop blurted out. “We tried to tell you.”

“I don’t get it,” Heather said.

“They think that the fire wasn’t an accident,” Bishop said. Heather felt like he was trying to communicate a message to her with his eyes, and she was too stupid to get it. “Someone burned the house down on purpose.”

“But it was an accident,” Nat insisted.

“For God’s sake, both of you.” Mrs. Velez rarely lost her temper; Heather was surprised even to hear her say “God.” “Stop it. You’re not doing anybody any good by lying. This is because of that game—Panic, or whatever you call it. Don’t try to pretend it isn’t. The police know. It’s all over. Honestly, I would have expected better. Especially from you, Bishop.”

Bishop opened his mouth, then closed it again. Heather wondered whether he’d been about to defend himself. But that would mean selling out Heather and Nat. She felt horribly ashamed. Panic. The word seemed awful spoken out loud, here, in this clean white place.

Mrs. Velez’s voice turned gentle again. “You’ll have to tell them the truth, Heather,” she said. “Tell them everything you know.”

Heather was starting to freak. “But I don’t know anything,” she said. She pulled her hand away from Bishop’s; her palm was starting to sweat. “Why do they need to talk to me? I didn’t do anything.”

“Someone is dead, Heather,” Mrs. Velez said. “It’s very serious.”

For a second, Heather was sure she’d misheard. “What?”

Mrs. Velez looked stricken. “I thought you knew.” She turned to Nat. “I was sure you would have told her.”

Nat said nothing.

Heather turned to Bishop. Her head seemed to take a very long time to move on her neck. “Who?” she said.

“Little Bill Kelly,” Bishop said. He tried to find her hand again, but she pulled away.

Heather couldn’t speak for a moment. The last time she’d seen Little Bill Kelly, he was sitting at a bus stop, feeding pigeons from the cup of his hands. When she’d smiled at him, he waved cheerfully and said, “Hiya, Christy.” Heather had no idea who Christy was. She’d barely known Little Kelly—he was older than she was, and had been away for years in the army.

“I don’t—” Heather swallowed. Mr. and Mrs. Velez were listening closely. “But he wasn’t . . .”

“He was in the basement,” Bishop said. His voice broke. “Nobody knew. You couldn’t have known.”

Heather closed her eyes. Color bloomed behind her eyelids. Fireworks. Fire. Smoke in the darkness. She opened her eyes again.

Mr. Velez had gone into the hall. The door was partly open. She heard murmured voices, the squeak of someone’s shoes on the tile floor.

He poked his head back in the room. He looked almost apologetic. “The police are here, Heather,” he said. “It’s time.”





MONDAY, JULY 11





dodge

“CAN I HAVE SOME WATER, PLEASE?”

Dodge wasn’t really thirsty, but he wanted a second to sit, catch his breath, and look around.

“Sure thing.” The cop who had greeted Dodge and ushered him into a small, windowless office—OFFICER SADOWSKI, read his name tag—hadn’t stopped smiling, like he was a teacher and Dodge was his favorite student. “You just sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

Dodge sat very still while he waited, just in case someone was watching. He didn’t have to turn his head to take in nearly everything: the desk, piled high with manila file folders; the shelves stacked with more papers; an ancient telephone, unplugged; photographs of several fat, smiling babies; a desk fan. It was a good thing, he thought, that Sadowski hadn’t brought him into an interrogation room.

Sadowski was back in only a minute, carrying a Styrofoam cup full of water. He was on a mission to seem friendly. “You comfortable? Happy with the water? You don’t want a soda or anything?”

“I’m fine.” Dodge took a sip of the water and nearly choked. It was piss-warm.

Sadowski either didn’t notice, or pretended not to. “Really glad you decided to come down and talk to us. Dan, right?”