Atlanta’s about to yell something to her, some kind of cocky bullshit taunt. But then—sirens. Lights. Red and blue chase each other in a nightclub strobe. A cop cruiser—not just a sedan but a goddamn Dodge Charger—comes whipping up the drive into Clover Knoll, headed straight for the both of them.

Atlanta and Something-essa share a look.

Something-essa gives Atlanta the finger.

Then she heads toward the hill.

Atlanta thinks to go after her, but that’ll force her to cross the path of the cops. No time for that. No time to think at all—her only mode is escape. Getting busted by the cops right now is not going to be good for her or for Sailor or for her mother. She already went away once; she doesn’t want to do it again.

She turns and runs the opposite way. Back toward the McMansions.

Atlanta hides.

Again behind a blue mailbox.

Palms sweaty, mouth dry.

Making herself as small as she can. Appropriate, given how small she feels. Small and angry, like a pimple ready to pop.

The cops sweep back and forth time and again, spotlight sliding over houses and lawns and sidewalks. Part of her thinks, Just go out there. Tell them what happened. Say, I’m trying to find out who’s taking these dogs and hurting them, and then give them the details about the truck and Something-essa, and then be done with it. But she does that, Jenny won’t pay her.

Besides, she can’t trust the cops. If one cop is sitting on Orly Erickson’s shoulder like a dark-eyed hawk, then he may have others, too.

So, no. No trusting the cops.

Atlanta hides.

Every minute is an agony that gnaws at Atlanta like a rat chewing through drywall, because every minute when she’s stuck behind a mailbox is a minute when the truck is getting away and that dognapping bitch is running farther and farther.

By the time the cops stop sweeping and go home, Atlanta’s been there for another hour.

It’s damn near two in the morning when she hoofs it out of Clover Knoll and back down the road toward the valley, toward Maker’s Bell proper. The walk is only fifteen minutes, but it feels like forever—a long, dark journey past crickets chirping and the black shapes of oak trees and evergreens.

Eventually, through the trees, there’s a fuzzy glow of the U.S. Gas at the bottom of the hill just before you turn onto Main Street. It’s the only place in town that has a pay phone. Atlanta thinks, I have to get a cell phone. Not that she has the money for that.