Page 70 of Our Daughter's Bones

“Earth to Mack.”

“I’m a bad person,” she murmured.

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes, I feel worse about Sterling’s mistress than I do about Abby possibly being dead. Isn’t someone’s life more important than infidelity?”

His grip on the wheel tightened. “Don’t try to be a saint, Mack.”

Why was she speaking to him about this? But the internal protests were a faint whimper.

“Will these people kill me if I shout out my support for the Frogs?”

“They will.”

“Will you save me?”

“No way. Save yourself.”

She cracked a smile.

Nick parked the car in a tight spot. When he killed the engine, he looked over at her.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

The words felt like icicles cutting her flushed skin. She regretted letting her guard down. She climbed out and slammed the door shut louder than intended.

Clouds blanketed the town, gathering the rain. But Mackenzie knew Lakemore was not stopping tonight. Tonight, it was going to glitter and glow.

“They should be in the locker room, according to Principal Burley,” Nick said. She appreciated the distance Nick maintained while they swam against the flow of the crowd, but caught his slightly raised hands, like a shield around her. Gritting her teeth, she pushed away from him, swatting people out of her way.

The crowd thinned when they reached the main building. The hallways were empty. She followed Nick, who knew the way to the locker room. She heard the roars and guffaws behind the closed doors. When Nick swung them open, the first thing she registered was—sweat.

The locker room was filled with glistening naked bodies moving and hooting. Mackenzie quickly averted her eyes.

“Victory! Victory! Victory!”

“Sharksattack! Sharksattack!”

“Get down! Get hard! Get mean!”

They weren’t men; they were animals. This wasn’t a locker room; it was a jungle. The celebration was primitive and carnal. Tall and broad-chested young men, flexing their muscles and crying out in deep voices—it was what happened when testosterone levels crossed a certain threshold.

She wrinkled her nose at the smell of sweat mixed with beer.

“Where’s Quinn?” Mackenzie asked a kid leaving the locker room.

“Don’t know.”

A tall, gray-haired man in a tracksuit spotted them as he handed a beer bottle to one of the boys. He was wiry but muscular; his posture told her that he was a former player. He stepped into the corridor.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Detective Price, and this is Detective Blackwood.”

He shook their hands. She cringed inwardly at his clammy skin.

“David Falkner. The assistant coach.” His eyes glazed. Mackenzie realized instantly that he was drunk. It was the same lack of focus she used to see in her father’s eyes every night.