Lie for Me (7 page)

I pull my phone from my pocket and dial Milo Gray's latest number. We talk enough that I should have him programmed into my contacts, but the guy gets twitchy about leaving any paper trail. I'm pretty sure he works exclusively from burner phones. If I were to get caught, Milo would be so gone. He's a little paranoid until you get to know him, but he's the best computer builder I've ever met.

He also knows it.

“Hey,” I say when the call connects.

“Hey yourself.” On the other end, someone giggles and Milo sucks in a breath. “I'm kind of busy, Griffin.”

“I need your help.”

“Seriously?” He sounds half strangled.

“Seriously.”

Milo swears and there's a rustling sound as he leans away from the phone. “Sweetheart,” he says to whoever's still giggling, “can you give me a minute? I gotta take this call.”

There's a low murmuring followed by a sharp retort. I can't understand the words, but I get the tone—female, petulant. When it comes to Milo, everything that hangs around him is female and petulant.

It's sort of how we met. One of Milo's hookups happened to be a longtime customer of Paul's. While the two of them argued weed pricing, Milo and I started talking. He ended up doing my last computer for me, and the way things are going, that sucker better stay running because I won't be able to afford another one.

“This better be good,” Milo says flatly, returning to me as, somewhere on his end, a door slams. “What kind of help do you need?”

“I'm not sure.” I tuck the phone between my jaw and shoulder, casting a look behind me. The path's deserted. No one's following me, but I still feel watched. “You have any experience with the Pandora Code?”

“The virus? Hell no.”

“What do you know about Red Queen?”

“I know you better keep that system I built you away from him. I am
not
cleaning up the mess he'll make of it. You'll be down for weeks, and that's
if
you get it up again.”

The path forks and I go left. “How do you know Red Queen's a he?”

“I don't, but really, how many girls you know who can do that sort of work?”

“None.”
Maybe
. The path widens and the trees thin, revealing the massive houses—all yellow-lit—behind them.

“What if that's your fault?” I ask, studying an empty living room as I go by. There's an enormous portrait of the family hung on the closest wall and everyone's smiling. It tugs something inside me and I turn away. “Maybe if you hung around girls who loved something more than their clothes—”

“I do hang around girls who love something more than their clothes. They love
me
. There's a big difference, and I still don't think Red Queen is a girl.”

“Even with that name?”

“So the dude has mommy issues. Whatever.”

Still walking, I turn around, checking behind me. The path is empty, but the hairs on my neck are prickling.

“You ever seen his work up close?” I ask.

Milo pauses, and when he finally speaks, his tone's turned guarded. “I've been following along for a couple years now. I'm kind of a fan.”

“Does he do a signature or something?” I already know the answer, but I'm hoping I'm wrong.

Milo yawns. “Not usually. When he does leave one, it's just that symbol—the skull with the red background.”

And crooked crown
. If Wick's Red Queen, she's more than just a sometimes bitchy, multicolored-haired high school girl. She's dangerous, and Carson could very well be right about Wick being instrumental in her father's crimes. She's smart, lethal, and embarrassingly better with computers than I am.

That should not be sexy as hell.

Milo sighs. “I probably don't want to know, but why're you asking?”

“You're right. You don't want to know.” This time, I completely stop and turn around. Light from the houses illuminates patches of grass and pavement, but there are still heavy pockets of shadows. “I gotta go, Mi.”

“See ya.” He disconnects and I pocket the phone, still scanning the dark. Nothing's there. I'm alone.

So why doesn't it feel like it?

A buzz. My phone again. I check the screen. It's a text message from my uncle.

 

Meet the Man tomorrow. 4:30. Don't b late.

 

I take another long look at the path behind me.
Don't worry, Paul, I have no intentions of letting that opportunity pass
.

9

Joe Bender lives in one of our neighborhood's few houses, a leftover from when the developer thought Twin Creeks was going to be more than trailer rentals and clay orange lawns. There are always four to five cars parked in the front, but I've only ever seen Joe drive the faded-red Accord. It's probably the only one that runs.

I weave around the cars, watching how the stained curtain in the front window briefly flutters. I've been spotted. I hop up the porch stairs and ring the doorbell. No sound. Typical. I knock twice and wait.

There's a shuffling on the other side before two dead bolts turn. I have just enough time to wonder who would be stupid enough to break into Bender's house before the door cracks open, accommodating Joe's considerable gut, but no more. He looks at me. I look at him.

“Girl Scout Cookie time already?” Joe asks finally.

“Nah, Jenny Craig subscriptions.” I dip my eyes to the guy's stomach. His belly button is pushing through his T-shirt. “Thought you could use it.”

“Boy.” Joe opens the door and lumbers onto the porch. He's a big dude, no doubt. The boards whine and pop underneath his steel-toed boots. “After I'm done with you, you'll be nothing more than a smear on the carpet.”

Bullshit. He'd have to catch me first
. I shrug. “But then who'd do your firewall work?”

Joe sucks his teeth for a beat. “So Paul was serious—you want work?”

“Yeah.”

“Come in then.” He bumps the door open so I can pass, and honestly, there's something about having Joe Bender behind me that makes my skin crawl.

“You as good as Paul says?” Joe asks.

I hesitate. My uncle Paul says computers are modern magic and, because I can fix his, I'm a magician. Uncle Paul smokes a lot of weed. “I have a few specialties—security, firewalls.”

“Good. I can use that. I already have someone who does the coding for the virus. She can handle that stuff and you can field the firewall problems.”

She?
My attention pricks. “What're you paying?”

“Cut of the proceeds. One percent.”

If I were actually accepting the money, that would be total bs. One percent means the profits'll be run through Joe and he can pay me whatever because I have no way of verifying exactly how much we've made.

“You don't like it,” Joe continues, “you can go blow and I'll find someone else.”

I shrug. “Fine. I need the work.”

“Good man. Always nice to teach a younger generation a craft.” Joe walks into the dining room—or what used to be a dining room. The lights are low, but I can still see two low tables are covered in computers, their cords snaking to the floor and disappearing into holes in the carpet. They must be storing the servers in the basement to keep them cool.

“You have your own gear?” Joe asks.

“Yeah.”

“Even better.” Joe takes a cell from the nearest table and shuffles back to me. “What's your number?”

I tell him, and seconds later, a text comes through on my phone.

“There,” Joe says. “Now you have mine. We should be meeting soon.”

I store it as he motions to the door with one meaty paw, ready to dismiss me. “I'll contact you with a time. Show up, do the work, and we won't have any problems.”

Fair enough, but the guy's smile says he's kinda hoping for problems, like he's already thinking of ways to take me apart. “Who does your coding?” I ask.

“You'll meet her soon enough.”

I swallow. I need a reason to stay, to ask more questions, and I'm not going to get it. The door's already open.

I nod. “Looking forward to hearing from you.”

“No doubt.” Joe slams the door behind me, the locks clicking into place.

I walk home, thinking about whether I should contact Carson. I don't want to . . . and I can't decide why that is. I've got the job. I should feel better about this. In the end, I settle on a text:

 

Got job. Pay up.

 

A moment later, my phone buzzes.

“That's good news,” Carson says. He's somewhere busy. I can barely hear him over the surrounding voices. “I'm glad to hear you're making progress. I did wonder if you were worth my investment.”

“Yeah, well, speaking of investments, I should get paid for this.”

“You haven't brought me anything yet.”

“I could testify I was recruited for a credit card scam.”

“Would you?”

“If you needed me to.” Which is a long way of saying no. It's one thing to narc on Tate in secret. It's a very different thing to come into the open. Carson can't protect me from that sort of backlash. I have to live with these people. My mom, Emily, Paul have to live with them too.

I reach my driveway and turn toward our trailer, feeling like someone let all the air out of me. I want so much more than this. It feels like it's going to drive me crazy sometimes. Or crush me. The jobs, my mom, school . . . it's like a boulder on my chest. Every day it gets heavier and running from it seems easier. Better.

The curtain above the kitchen sink flutters and my mom's face appears at the glass, watching me closely. I wish she wanted more. I want my mom to want something for herself. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel guilty sometimes for having dreams: college, art, just getting out of here. It feels like I'm betraying her somehow. She'd be alone and I know she can't stand that, but I can't stand staying here.

Carson clears his throat. “Anything else, son?”

“You want me to continue”—I put my back to my mom—“you have to keep paying so I can.”

The detective laughs. Anyone listening on his end would think we were having the time of our lives.

“Fair enough,” he says, the noisy background quiet now. He must have moved to a bathroom, because his voice suddenly echoes. “Just remember, if the girl is there, I want to know. Immediately.”

“What do you want with Wick anyway? You'd have better luck nailing her father,” I say, not adding,
If you could catch him
. “Everyone knows he runs things—”

“And through Wicket, I'll find Tate. If she's there, I want you to use that. Get her to trust you. Find out everything you can.”

“She might not know anything. You just have a hunch.”

“Is there some sort of problem, son?”

“No.”

“Good. Do what I tell you then. I'll be in touch.”

I disconnect, turning around to see my mom still at the window. I'm too far away to gauge her mood, feel like I'm walking into the kitchen blind, but she doesn't ask about the phone call or why I took so long in our driveway, and I spend most of the night doing homework so we don't have to talk.

She goes to bed around midnight and I stay up, working through chemistry homework until I want to drop. In fact, I'm almost asleep when the text from Joe comes through:

 

We start tomorrow

10

I'm up for the rest of the night. Mostly, it's because I need to tailor the new firewall program for Joe, but it's also because of her. What happens if Wick isn't there and I don't get Carson what he wants?

Worse, what happens if she
is
there? Could I really get her to trust me . . . and then turn her in?

I unplug the thumb drive from my computer and pocket it. I want to say yes. Of course, I could. There's my mom to think about, our bills, my future. This isn't personal, but it feels personal when I pull into Bender's driveway the next day after school.

I park my bike near the beaten-up Accord, take a deep breath before climbing the porch steps. I'm nervous and it's aggravating. This is just like any other job.

Except this boss is known for hurting people, and if I mess up
—I give myself a shake. I won't mess up.

The door's cracked open and I walk straight in. The foyer smells like old pizza and canned air, and for a moment, all I can see is Joe . . . and then I see Wick.

Her eyes are so light they've gone colorless again and it feels like a wrecking ball to my chest.

“Do you have the new firewall program?” Joe asks, stepping into my line of vision.

I nod and pull the thumb drive from my pocket, handing it to him. He plugs it into one of the laptops on the coffee table, giving everyone plenty of time to stare at each other while he scrolls through my files.

Guess this is the time I should look at Wick and act surprised?

Our eyes meet and she flinches, focuses on Joe. Guess we're not saying hi. That's fine. I'm not sure I could manage it anyway. As far as I can tell, there're just the four of us: Joe, Wick, and some thin girl I've never seen before. If Tate's coming, he's late.

“Nice,” Joe says at last, exiting the final file and looking at me. “Good to know Paul doesn't lie about everything.”

I shrug, settling against the wall as Joe explains the scam.

“I want to make sure we have distance on this,” he says, face starting to flush as he talks about the targets. “Heather will call them up and get their email information.” Joe gives the thin girl—Heather—a shove and she moves over just before Joe collapses into her seat.

“It'll reassure them that we're not asking for money up front,” he continues. “We'll direct them to the website and tell them to input their donations there.”