“I do mind.” Krista sidestepped the cop as he took a step toward her. She nearly stumbled over one of the flowerpots. He reached out and grabbed her elbow. She tried to shake him off.

“Ma’am, please. If you could just walk this way . . .”

“Let go of me.”

Heather watched it in slow motion. There was a swell of noise. Shouting. And Krista was swinging her arm, bringing her fist to the officer’s face. The punch seemed amplified by a thousand: a ringing, hollow noise.

And then time sped forward again and the cop was twisting Krista’s arms behind her as she bucked and writhed like an animal. “You are under arrest for assaulting a police officer—”

“Let go.”

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

She was handcuffed. Heather didn’t know whether to feel relieved or terrified. Maybe both. Krista was still shouting as the cop led her off the porch, toward the squad car—calling up to Lily, screaming about her rights. Then she was in the car and the door closed and there was silence, except for the engine gunning on, the spit of gravel as the cop turned a circle. A sweep of headlights. Then darkness. The porch light had gone off again.

Heather was shaking. When she could finally speak, the only thing she could say was: “I hate her.” Then again: “I hate her.”

“Come on, sweetie.” Anne put her arm around Heather’s shoulders. “Let’s go inside.”

Heather exhaled. She let the anger go with it. They stepped into the house together, into the coolness of the hall, the patterns of shadow and moonlight that already looked familiar. She thought of Krista, raging away in the back of a cop car. Her stomach started to unknot. Now everyone would know the truth: how Krista was, and what Heather and Lily were escaping.

Anne gave Heather a squeeze. “It’s going to be okay,” she said. “You’re going to be okay.”

Heather looked at her. She managed a smile. “I know,” she said.

The end of August was the saddest time of the year in Carp. Maybe the saddest time everywhere.

Every year, no matter what the weather, the public pools were suddenly clogged with people, the parks carpeted in picnic blankets and beach towels, the road packed bumper-to-bumper with weekenders descending on Copake Lake. A shimmering veil of exhaust hung over the trees, intermingling with the smell of charcoal and smoke from a hundred fire pits. It was the final, explosive demonstration of summer, the line in the sand, a desperate attempt to hold fall forever at bay.

But autumn nibbled the blue sky with its teeth, tore off chunks of the sun, smudged out that heavy veil of meat-smelling smoke. It was coming. It would not be held off much longer.

It would bring rain, and cold, and change.

But before that: the final challenge. The deadliest challenge.

Joust.

THURSDAY, AUGUST 25

dodge

THE DAY OF JOUST WAS WET AND COLD. DODGE dressed in his favorite jeans and a worn T-shirt, emerged sockless into the den, ate cereal from a mixing bowl, and watched a few reality TV shows with Dayna, making some jokes about the douche bags who would let their whole lives get filmed. She seemed relieved that he was acting normal.

But the whole time, his mind was several miles away, on a dark straightaway, on engines gunning and tires screeching and the smell of smoke.

He was worried. Worried the fire would start too early, when Dodge was driving the car. And worried that Ray wouldn’t go for the switch.

He was counting on that, had rehearsed a speech in his head. “I want to change cars,” he’d say, after Heather let him win the first round. “So I know it’s fair. So I know he didn’t go turbo on his engine, or screw with my brakes.”

How could Ray say no? If Dodge drove carefully, no more than forty miles per hour, the engine shouldn’t heat up too much, and the explosion wouldn’t get triggered. Heather had to let him win even if he was going at a crawl. Ray would never suspect.

And then he’d get in the car, floor it, and the engine would start smoking and sparking and then . . .

Revenge.

If everything went according to plan. If, if, if. He hated that stupid word.

At three p.m. Bill Kelly came by to take Dayna to physical therapy. Dodge didn’t understand how Kelly had just wormed his way into their lives. Dayna was practically up his ass. Like they were suddenly all one big happy family unit, and Dodge was the only one who could remember: they weren’t family, would never be. It had always been Dodge and Dayna and no one else.

And now, he’d even lost her.

“You gonna be okay?” she asked. She was getting good with her chair, spinning herself around furniture, bumping up the place where the floor was slightly uneven. He hated that she’d had to get good at being crippled.

“Yeah, sure.” He deliberately didn’t look at her. “Just gonna watch some TV and stuff.”

“We’ll be back in a couple of hours,” she said. And then: “I think it’s really working, Dodge.”

“I’m happy for you,” he said. He was surprised to feel his throat getting tight. She was halfway out the door when he called her back. “Dayna,” he said. All for you.

She turned. “What?”

He managed to smile. “Love ya.”

“Don’t be a dick,” she said, and smiled back. Then she wheeled out of the house and closed the door behind her.

heather

WITH EVERY PASSING MINUTE, SHE WAS CLOSER TO THE END.

Heather should have felt a sense of relief, but instead she was gripped, all day, with dread. She told herself that all she had to do was lose. She’d have to trust that Dodge would keep his promise about the money.

He wasn’t playing for the money. She had always known that on some level. But she wished she’d really pushed him about what motivated him. Maybe that was making her jumpy: now, even at the very end of the game, she didn’t understand his end goal. It made her feel as though there were other games going on, secret rules and pacts and alliances, and she was just a pawn.

Around five o’clock, the storm passed, and the clouds started to shred apart. The air was thick with moisture and mosquitoes. The roads would be slick. But she reminded herself it wouldn’t matter. She could back out, even, if she wanted to; pretend to chicken out, or really chicken out, at the last second. Then Dodge and Ray could face off and she’d be done.

Still, the sick feeling—a weight in her stomach, an itch under her skin—wouldn’t leave her.

Joust had been moved. There had been no formal messages about it, no texts or emails. Bishop was lying low, just in case anyone was angry about the way the game had shaken out. Heather didn’t blame him. And presumably Vivian, too, was keeping her head down. For the first time in the history of the game, the final challenge would proceed with or without the judges.

But word had come back to Heather, as it always did in a town so small, with so little but talk to feed it. The cops were posted all around the runway where Joust traditionally occurred. So: a change in location. A spot not far from the gully and the old train tracks.

Heather wondered, with another pang, whether Nat would show up.

It was six o’clock when she left. Her hands were already shaking, and she worried that in another hour or so, she’d be too nervous to drive or she’d chicken out entirely. Anne had agreed to let Heather use the car for the night, and Heather hated herself for lying about why she needed it. But she told herself that this was it, the end—no more lies from here on out. And she would be extra careful, and pull the car off the road well before Dodge came anywhere close to her.

She didn’t say good-bye to Lily. She didn’t want to make a big deal of it. It wasn’t a big deal.

She’d be home in a few hours, tops.

She had just turned out of the driveway when she felt her phone buzz. She ignored it, but the calls started up again right away. And then a third time. She pulled over and fished her phone from her pocket.

Nat. As soon as she picked up, she knew something was very, very wrong.

“Heather, please,” Nat was saying, even before Heather said hello. “Something bad is going to happen. We have to stop it.”

“Hold on, hold on.” Heather could hear Nat sniffling. “Calm down. Start at the beginning.”

“It’s going to happen tonight,” Nat said. “We have to do something. He’ll end up dead. Or he’ll kill Ray.”

Heather could barely follow the thread of the conversation.

“Who?”

“Dodge,” Nat wailed. “Please, Heather. You have to help us.”

Heather sucked in a deep breath. The sun chose that moment to break through the clouds completely. The sky was streaked with fingers of red, the exact color of new blood.

“Who’s us?”

“Just come,” Nat said. “Please. I’ll explain everything when you get here.”

dodge

DODGE DROVE PAST THE GULLY JUST AFTER SIX O’CLOCK. The car Bishop had lent him—a Le Sabre that Dodge knew could never be returned—was old and temperamental, and drifted to the left whenever he didn’t correct it. It didn’t matter. Dodge didn’t need it for very long.

He parked on the side of the road on one side of the straightaway that had been selected for the challenge. The road was pretty dead—maybe people were discouraged by the bad weather. Dodge was glad. He couldn’t risk being spotted.

It didn’t take long. It was surprisingly easy—kid stuff, which was ironic, especially considering that Dodge had failed chemistry three times and wasn’t exactly a science guy. Funny how easily you could look this shit up online. Explosives, bombs, Molotov cocktails, IEDs . . . anything you wanted. Learning how to blow someone up was easier than buying a frigging beer.

Earlier, he’d dissolved a bit of an old Styrofoam cooler in some gasoline and poured the whole mixture into a mason jar. Homemade napalm—easy as making salad dressing. Now he carefully duct-taped a firecracker to the outside of the jar and nestled the whole thing down into the engine bay. Not too close to the exhaust manifold—he needed to get through the challenge with Heather first. And he would drive carefully, make sure the engine didn’t get too hot.

Then the car would go to Ray. Ray would gun it, and the firecracker would ignite, and the jar would shatter, discharging the explosives.

Kaboom.

All he had to do now was wait.

But almost immediately, he got a text from Heather. Need to pick u up. Emergency. We have to talk.

And then: Now.

Dodge cursed out loud. Then he had a sudden fear: she was going to back out. That would ruin everything. He wrote her back quickly. Corner of Wolf Hill and Pheasant. Pick me up.

Coming, she wrote back.

He walked circles while he waited for her, smoking cigarettes. He had been calm before, but now he was filled with anxiety, a crawling, itching sensation, as though spiders were scurrying under his skin.

He thought of Dayna in the hospital bed as he’d first seen her after the accident—wide-eyed, a little blood and snot crusted above her mouth, saying, “I can’t feel my legs. What happened to my legs?” Getting hysterical in the hospital room, trying to stand, and landing instead in Dodge’s lap.