Page 101 of The Pleasure of Panic

He reaches into his suit coat pocket, pulls out a badge holder, much like the one I have—had, since they took it away—and flips it open.

“Special Agent Darrel Jameson,” I say, squinting as I read his ID.

“That’s me. But I’m retired. This,” he says, flipping his wallet closed, “is just the one they let me carry when I’m on special assignment. You were my special assignment.”

“Me?”

“We’re not gonna charge you. In fact, the whole report has been rewritten and your name has now been excluded. You were never there, Agent Murphy. Do you understand?”

“Uh… I mean, I get it. But no. I don’t understand any of this. I thought I killed my father last fall. I saw him take that bullet. And he didn’t have a fuckin’ vest on, I checked. I was hoping. And—”

“You’re getting waaaaay ahead of yourself here, Murphy. So just take a breath, sit back, get comfortable, and let me start from the beginning.”

So I do.

I listen as he tells his story.

My story, actually.

Except I’m not the one who wrote it.

CHAPTER FORTY - ISSY

Go F*ck Yourself is where I find myself over the next few weeks. The online class was a hit, but the phone was ringing off the hook looking for the classes. “People want you,” Suzanne said. “Not just the information you have.”

The FBI interview was as mysterious as the game that precluded it.

Was it a game?

And more importantly, did I win? Or lose?

I can’t tell. I have no idea. All I know is that Finn is coming back today. It’s been almost five weeks since that night up in the mountains.

Caleb is dead. Sometimes a gunshot wound to the chest kills you, I guess.

Apparently Finn is just a better shot than Senator Walcott.

Speaking of the senator, his name never came up in my interview. Even when I brought it up, it didn’t come up. They just moved past it like they had no clue what I was talking about.

Normally I’d be feeling pretty cynical about that, but apparently Senator Walcott is missing. Presumed dead after he went on a hunting trip up in the mountains almost five weeks ago. They think he was either eaten by a mountain lion or mauled by a bear. They’re hoping they’ll find his body in the spring when the snow melts.

If Chella knows anything about her father’s disappearance, she doesn’t let on. If she knows it was part of my game, she doesn’t say anything. She did look appropriately sad when all the local TV stations were camped outside her tea shop the day after his disappearance. She cried in the interview. Asked people—like hunters and outdoor people and shit—to please be on the lookout for him so she could get closure. If he was dead, she just wanted to know for sure.

But after that… she was just Chella. I don’t know her story and I’m not going to ask, because she doesn’t know my story and she never asked me either.

Secrets, right? Sometimes you just wanna keep that shit to yourself.

She came over to my hospital room the day I was released, helped me carry all the flowers and stuffed animals out to her car, and then she drove me home, made me tea, and said to call her if I needed anything.

Jordan showed up next. He knocked on my door, then let himself in my house like he belongs there. I think he just came over to feel me out because the conversation went something like this:

ME: Did you fuckin’ plan all this?

HIM: Plan all what?

ME: The game.

HIM: What game?