“Are we going to get home?” she asks, and she tries not to let the tears escape, but they do, and when she wipes them away, I give her the grace of pretending not to notice. She’s trying hard to be brave.
Kids like her, they’re not trained for bank robberies.
Kids like her, they’re trained for school shootings.
Run. Hide. Fight.
We all know the drill. We’ve all thought about it. We have to.
Who will you be, if it comes down to it? No shame in running. No judgment in hiding. Nothing but fear in fighting.
But here and now, there’s nowhere to run. No place to hide. So really, is there a choice?
Be a viper, baby. Always be ready to bite back. That’s how I was raised. But you never know if you can do it until it happens to you.
“Yes, we are getting home,” Iris says, and it sounds like she means it even though she’s just hoping. “But we need to work together. Is there anything you can think of?”
“Dad was in Gamblers Anonymous, but he stopped going. That’s when my mom filed for divorce.”
“Has anyone stopped by his place while you were there?” I ask. “Men looking for money? Has your dad gotten hurt lately? Any bruises? Broken bones?” Was this some sort of loan shark thing gone wrong? Is that why they aren’t wearing masks?
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Are there any nights he’s gone?”
“I only see him three times a week,” Casey says. “But . . . we used to do Tuesday through Thursday, and now we do weekend through Monday. I know he asked for the change, because my mom was upset about losing our weekends. She told my aunt that he’d probably found a new poker game.”
I frown, something twisting in my brain, and when I look up at Wes, I see his eyebrows are scrunched up, too.
“Doesn’t your dad run his poker game on Thursday?” I ask Wes.
Wes nods. “When my mom stays in Chico for the opera board meeting. He says it’s just friends, but you know him.”
“Oh yeah, I know him.” It trips out of my mouth, all vile and disgusted because I can’t help myself. Mayor Prentiss hates my guts, and the feeling is very mutual. He first hated me because Wes wasn’t supposed to be dating a girl with short hair who owns more flannel than his son. It was Not Done. The horror! When we broke up, I know he thought he’d won the battle I started with him, but he’s always been bad at predicting Wes’s goodness; he couldn’t do a thing when we stayed friends. “How much money do you think is getting tossed around those games?”
“I have no idea. It’s been years since I’ve been in the house during a game.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, because this is a wound I don’t like prodding, but here I am, jabbing it. “You’ve seen the guys who show up at the games, though, right?”
He nods.
“Anyone like Red or Gray Cap ever show up?”
“No way.”
“What about a bank manager?”
“Yeah, probably, if they knew someone and had the buy-in,” Wes says. “What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “The robbers know Casey’s dad from somewhere. If he’s a gambler, maybe he was blabbing somewhere.”
“There are casinos,” Wes reminds me.
“He wouldn’t want to be seen,” I say. “It broke up his marriage.” I glance apologetically at Casey, but she just keeps watching me. “He’s still respected in the community. He’s trying to keep his problem quiet. A private game with the mayor . . . That has prestige and a kind of social cover that public slot machines don’t have.”
“So you think he’s in debt to someone at my dad’s poker game and they’ve sent thugs to rob him?” Wes asks.
“No,” I say. “It’s just . . . they asked Lee for the manager, and now they want a toolbox.”
“Which means they didn’t plan on needing tools,” Iris says. “They thought the manager would be here to give them access.”
“They need something in his office,” I say. “Keys to downstairs, I’m thinking? His office is still locked because he had to go pick up the other teller. Olivia, the teller who’s here, must not have a key. So they’ll have to break in . . .”
“I don’t get how that helps us,” Casey says.
“If we know what they want, we can give it to them,” Wes says. “It builds trust. It might buy us time.”