“What the fuck just happened?” Whiskey said, the rifle crack still ringing in their ears.
“Don’t take your gun off him.”
Mitchell groaned behind her. Bethany stood in the door of the Water House and watched as Coach Parter seemed to fly up the steps of the tall triple-wide. Mr. Lott—he looked hideous in a wig, God bless him—screamed from inside one of the triple-wide’s windows, wailing like a piece of his soul was being pulled out through his mouth. Bethany’s mind was moving fast. She refused to look at Kimbra’s spangled corpse, clad in a singlet identical to the one Bethany was wearing.
Bethany knew—knew—that that rifle’s bullet had been meant for her own heart.
Coach Parter made it through the triple-wide’s door. Mr. Lott shouted something at him that Bethany couldn’t hear. She didn’t need to. A moment later Lott had the barrel of the rifle in his mouth.
Bethany saw Jamal leaning against the corner of the tall trailer’s porch, breathing hard, his clothes soaked. He met her eye. Bethany prayed that the little nod she gave him said everything she wanted to say: I’m sorry and Good luck.
She looked back up at the triple-wide’s window in time to watch Mr. Lott’s wig come off with the top of his skull.
And there was Jamal, revolver in his hand, climbing the steps of the tall trailer’s porch two at a time.