Dial Em for Murder (31 page)

“Just think it over, okay?” Kayla said, turning on the puppy dog eyes. “Both of you.”

Audrey looked surprised at being pulled into the conversation. “Never going to happen.”

“I'll consider it.” I managed a weak, unconvincing smile to keep Kayla from following us down to the pathway, rattling off a thousand and one reasons to stay. Then I shut the door.

Audrey didn't say a word as we exited the manor house and slid into the sleek black Town Car waiting for us at the curb. The quiet came as a relief. My voice needed a rest as badly as my bruised body did, and I embraced the silence that settled over us. The rhythm of the car lulled me into a weird semi-trance as the outside world flashed past me. There was nothing for me to control, no schedule for me to follow, no Potential Hostile watching me from the shadows.

Frederick St. James had written it in Persian, but I had no trouble spelling it out in English.

It was
over
.

Done. Finished. Completed.

At least that's what I really wanted to convince myself, because the possibility that somebody might still be planning my murder already had me teetering on the edge of another meltdown.

Audrey cleared her throat and pointed awkwardly at the familiar apartment complex.

“I've got to go, Em. I'm sorry I couldn't—” she glanced over nervously at Force and hastily concealed the rest of her apology with a shrug. The determined point of her chin made me want to confess everything. Tell her that I
had
cracked the Slate. All on my own.

At the very least, I'd turned it into a flash-bang. That had to count for
something
.

Except I couldn't tell Audrey anything in front of Force without also explaining that he'd saved my life by shoving my teacher out of a third-story window. A discussion that was pretty much guaranteed to send me into another panic spiral. I couldn't handle any more tonight. Then again, I wasn't convinced I could keep it together tomorrow. But that was a problem for later.

So I gave her shoulder a weak shove. “Get out of here before your parents think you're having a secret affair in a Town Car.”

Audrey rolled her eyes before climbing out of the backseat. “Not everyone sees the world as a romance novel, Emmy.” She flashed one last warm parting smile before entering the building.

Force waited expectantly behind the wheel. “Where do you want to go now?”

I was tempted to say something ridiculous.
Drive me to Vegas, Force. Don't stop until I see the bright lights of an Elvis-themed wedding chapel.
The guy hadn't flinched at the prospect of committing murder on my behalf. Compared to that, a road trip was nothing. The two of us could gorge on all-you-can-eat buffets before parting ways so that I could watch Cirque du Soleil while Force tested his luck at the craps tables.

I dismissed the bizarre take-your-bodyguard-on-vacation daydream by rattling off a familiar address instead.

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure you don't want me to take you home, kid?”

“Positive,” I lied.

Force merged with traffic so smoothly that I wondered what other skills he might have tucked up his sleeve. Getaway driver. Combat specialist. He was probably well-versed in torture techniques, both at employing and withstanding them. Probably an expert survivalist, too.

I was trying to picture Force in hand-to-paw combat with a grizzly bear as he pulled the car up to the destination I'd given him. I had my fingers resting on the handle when he finally spoke again.

“You've got my number. Don't wait so long to use it next time.”

I stared at the back of his head in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Your text.”

“I never texted you.”

“Yes, you did. From the library. Have you been checked for a concussion?” Force swiveled in the driver's seat so that he could pin me with his muddy brown eyes. “What's your name?”

“Emmy Violet Danvers,” I said dutifully, not about to argue with him over a nonexistent text message. “I don't think I have a concussion. Name, rank, and social security number, right? It's 548—”

Force cut me off with a low growl. “You
never
give out that information!”

“But—”

“
No exceptions!
”

“I've got it.”

He continued mumbling under his breath, something about protecting kids who gave out their own damn social security numbers. He seemed to be enjoying his tirade, so I lingered in the back seat until he'd gotten it all out of his system.

It was the least I could do.

Force opened the driver's door, efficiently carrying my suitcase to the top step of the building. It was five o'clock in the morning, and he'd shoved a woman to her death only a few hours earlier, but he didn't reveal even the slightest bit of strain.

“This isn't goodbye, kid. I'll be seeing you around.”

I nodded, fighting down a sudden urge to grab him. To make him promise to keep me safe. To teach me how to fight so that I could never be this afraid again. To ask if he had any regrets over what he'd done—if he secretly wished that our paths hadn't crossed. Instead, I murmured a goodbye, typed in the building code, and wheeled my suitcase inside. Every step made my shoulder throb. My side ache. My noodle arms pleaded for relief. It had never taken me this long to trudge the short distance, and I struggled not to slump against my suitcase. Not to fall asleep right out in the open where anyone could find me.

Just a little farther.

The metallic scrape of the key sliding into the lock filled me with a strange sense of inevitability. As if I couldn't possibly have died today because this was where I belonged. I fumbled open the door, navigated my way around the deserted kitchen table, and cautiously wheeled my suitcase around the squeaky patch of flooring. Then I paused to lightly rap on the last door down the short hallway.

Silence.

I tested the handle, relief swamping me when it turned beneath my bandaged palm. Then I tiptoed inside with my suitcase before easing the door shut behind me.

“Ben?” I whispered.

No response.

I could make out the basic outline of his prone body beneath a tangle of sheets and blankets. I froze, staring intently at his silhouette while part of me hoped he would roll over and send the blankets sliding to the floor. Watching him sleep was a complete violation of his privacy, but I couldn't seem to work up any real guilt over it. Desire felt a hell of a lot better than the cold panic that still gripped me.

He mumbled something incomprehensible into his pillow.

“Ben?”

“
LemmealoneCam.
” The garbled command took me a moment to unpack. Leave. Me. Alone. Cam.

I'd just been downgraded from platonic best friend to little brother status.

Great.

“It's not Cam.”

“Notmakingpancakes.”

I toed off my shoes and stilled, uncertain. Nemmy probably would've launched a full-blown seduction campaign only hours after a close call with death. Then again, Nemmy wouldn't sneak into a boy's bedroom while on the verge of a nervous breakdown and looking like a half-drowned rat. At the very least, she would have finger-combed her wet hair into a vague semblance of order.

I was too exhausted to fake a smile, let alone put on a whole devil-may-care persona.

So I repeated his name, louder this time, as I edged closer to the bed. “Ben.”

Some part of his subconscious must have recognized the urgency in my voice, because he twisted in bed and stared up at me in confusion. “Emmy?”

“Yeah. It's me.” My teeth resumed their tap dance routine as I inched closer until I was well within his reach. Not that I expected him to pull me against his body or anything.

That was pure fantasy.

“What's wrong?” Ben rubbed his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I-I—” I couldn't seem to find the right words. Hell, I couldn't seem to find
any
words. “No. I'm not.”

“What happened?” he demanded. “Did someone hurt you?”

I shook my head. “I don't . . . I need you.” I sucked in a deep breath before perching on the side of his bed. “C-could you lie to me, Ben?”

He straightened, eyeing me warily, as if I'd asked to borrow his mom's credit card and passport. “Why do you want that?”

“Because you d-don't lie to me. Ever. So if you t-tell me that I'm going to be okay, I'll b-believe you.” My teeth chattered so hard that saying anything else was beyond me. Every part of me shook, and not in the sexy trembling way of a heroine filled with uncontrollable lust, but like a skinny Chihuahua forced outside without a sweater.

“Lie to me,” I whispered, afraid that if I closed my eyes I'd be back in the library, crawling on the glass-strewn floor, with Rachel Pierce's thin fingers wrapped around my ankle. That I'd relive the mocking jeer in her voice, her high-pitched scream, the horrific crack of broken bones. “Lie to me, please. Lie—”

“Emmy.” Ben's touch was gentle, hesitant, like he was afraid I'd shatter. “You're going to be okay.”

I stared blindly at the doorway that I had blocked with my suitcase. Any second now somebody would take me away. Somebody would interrogate me. Accuse me. Mock me.

Kill me.

“I'm not lying to you.” Ben wrapped an arm around my waist and tugged me against him. Ignoring the tangled blanket between us, I burrowed into the warm wall of his chest. My muscles remained tense, but he didn't seem to mind. He didn't loosen his hold even when I shook with hiccuping sobs.

“It's okay, Em. Whatever happened, we'll figure it out, okay? It's going to be okay.”

That was the last thing I heard before sleep claimed me.

There was a Post-it stuck to the pillow next to mine when I woke up.

Welcome home
, was written in Ben's familiar scrawl. He didn't sign it
Love, Ben
or
Always, Ben
or anything else that I could have spent hours evaluating. There was no secret message hidden inside the two simple words.

It wasn't code for
I love you madly, desperately, eternally.

All it meant was
welcome home
.

I had enough craziness in my life without blowing a simple sticky note out of proportion.

Especially since I'd barged into his bedroom before dawn—uninvited—and immediately dissolved into a puddle of tears.

Pathetic.

I shoved my hair away from my gritty, red-rimmed eyes. I never should've crawled into Ben's bed like a five-year-old afraid of finding monsters in her closet. I should have made the mature, responsible choice and gone straight home to my mom.

Ben's parents had to be at work by now, their sons were at school, making me an interloper in an empty apartment. I was still scared witless. Last night my total lack of direction had come as a relief. Force had taken the wheel, and I'd only needed to keep it together long enough to knock on Ben's bedroom door. Technically, I began my meltdown in the apartment hallway, but whatever. I had shoved away all thoughts of the future. Except the tomorrow I'd envisioned was today and the rest of the world wasn't going to slow down just because I felt like a white-bellied fish about to be gutted.

I needed a new plan.

A nuanced survival strategy, with bullet points and checklists and a multi-pronged approach aimed at keeping me safe.

Instead, I slid out of the bed and fumbled inside my suitcase for my photo album. Maybe it was self-indulgent to hide in the pages of the past, but I didn't care. Future Emmy would just have to deal with it. I sat cross-legged on the warm bed, cocooned in blankets, flipping through pictures that I'd examined thousands of times.

My mom grinned back at me from each page, flaunting over-dramatic poses in front of dozens of Los Angeles landmarks. I tried to imagine what it would have been like to visit California as a family. I could almost feel the oppressive heat of the sun, taste the gritty layer of dust that would coat my teeth near the Hollywood sign, feel my cheek muscles tighten into a stilted smile for the camera, hear my dad insist on taking a few more shots of his girls.

It would have felt like heaven.

I flipped to the close-up photo of my dad's left eye, searching it once more for some trace of emotion—sadness, anxiety, impatience, amusement—I'd accept anything.

Nothing.

Except this time the tingly
you-are-missing-something-right-under-your-nose
feeling refused to ease. It prickled, growing in intensity, until I sat rooted with an overwhelming sense of certainty.

I was
definitely
missing something here.

Something important.

My hand automatically slid into my sweatshirt for the Slate that I'd spent the night ignoring. I hadn't wanted to think about it. I'd been an emotional trainwreck
before
Force had slipped the Slate into my pocket, and having it back had only intensified my anxiety. I'd tried. I'd done my best to get my panic under control. To keep a cool head.

Given the way I had sobbed hysterically all over Ben, I couldn't have failed any harder.

Internally cringing, I turned on the Slate.

It wasn't password-protected anymore.

Welcome Emmy Danvers
looped and curled across the screen in a swirling script, knocking out my breath faster than a sucker punch in the stomach.

It really had been intended for
me
. Not Sebastian. Not President Gilcrest or Force or anybody else. Me. It was my name plastered across the home screen. I didn't doubt that Frederick St. James had found the wrong girl, but my fingers couldn't stop trembling as I clicked the inbox.

I skimmed over half a dozen of them, most of which included the word
payment
before listing five-digit sums. One client in particular appeared to be growing increasingly desperate for a response judging by the excessive use of exclamation points. The names of the senders were blocked, but half a dozen of them shared Rachel Pierce's creepy mocking cadence. A chill shuddered through me.