Page 11 of ClickBack

My phone vibrates.

Unknown Number: A win by one is still a win.

I look up. She is pretending to listen to something her daughter is saying.

Me: I respect a woman who protects her stats.

Unknown Number: I respect a man who was up by one with five seconds left and still lost.

Graves appears at my shoulder. “I need you to act like somebody paid you to be here.”

“Somebody did.”

“Good. You remember.”

I head toward the awards with him, typing once more before I put the phone away.

Me: What time do you clock out?

At the banner, the first boy shows me his certificate. I ask him to read the name for me rather than guess, then crouch beside him while his mother takes the picture. He wants a second one with our fists up. We take that, too.

Giselle’s answer is waiting when the group changes.

Giselle: After cleanup. I need a minute when nobody is asking me for anything.

I look at the line of kids, then at the missed calls above her message.

Me: Take your minute. I still have awards.

She sends back a thumbs-up. I put the phone in my pocket and face the next child. Whatever happens after this, I want to have finished the part I came here to do.

Chapter 3

Giselle

Somebody’s child has put a retainer in a napkin, and for ten minutes all the adults at Zion’s party become volunteers in a search none of us signed up for.

I find it beside a half-eaten slice of pizza. The boy’s mother thanks me with the exhausted sincerity of a woman who knows what braces cost. Rae has her arms full of gift bags. Jeremy is taking the last box to her car while Ms. Kandy supervises the safe transport of her tissue paper.

“Ma, where do you want the rest of the cupcakes?”

“Your house.”

Rae looks at the two containers. “Both?”

“It was your child’s party.”

“He’s going to eat them.”

“That was the idea when I ordered them.”

She opens her mouth, gives up, and makes room in a bag. I might have taken one container home, decided Zion would want them later, and driven them back to him tomorrow. It is a small pleasure to bypass the unnecessary trip.

Across the walkway, Jarrett is still posing for pictures. A little boy has asked him to crouch, then crouch lower, then turn slightly so they look about the same height. Jarrett follows every instruction. The mother can barely hold her phone steady for laughing.

“Ma.” Rae holds out her hand. “My keys.”

I have them. I have also been watching that man for long enough to deserve the look she gives me.