Panic(56)

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.

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.”