Remember Me (18 page)

Under the orangey carport light, Griff's eyes are electric green. “What's the job?”

“Break into Ed Price's office. I found the hacker that called off Bay's security guards. He was also hired to find some pictures that were sent to Price. They're supposed to be in the guy's office. If I get them, I'm done.”

“How are you going to do it?”

“Carson's working out the details, but he's going to have the security system disabled. After that, it's easy. In and out.”

Griff nods. “I'll go with you.”

“You don't have to.”

“No.”

“Are you still mad at me about the YouTube thing?”

“I'm still trying to understand you.” A door slams inside the trailer, startling both of us. Griff's head dips, shifting the light on his face so his eyes turn into gouged-out holes. “Now really isn't a good time. My mom's . . . not well again. Can I take you home?”

“I could walk.”

“Or you could ride.” A smile walks slowly across his mouth and I know both of us are remembering the first time he talked me into riding with him.

“Yeah, sure.”

Griff cranks the motorcycle and passes me a helmet as I climb on behind him. I love this part: the speed, the touching, the way Griff guns the bike so we shoot out of the neighborhood like we're flying. It's great until it's not because we get to my house too quickly and I have to tell each finger to let him go.

“You really believe Carson?” Griff asks, fastening my helmet to the back of his bike.

“Yes,” I say, and I almost leave it at that—almost—because if I'm supposed to be able to tell him everything, I'll start with this: “He'll have to let me go, Griff. I'm going to load a virus onto the judge's computer. It'll upload Carson's digital fingerprints throughout the file system. He said his boss didn't want him anywhere near Bay and I'm going to make it look like he was personally going through the judge's files. Carson tries to touch me again and I'll activate the virus. It's the leverage we've been looking for.”

I waver. Did I repeat the word because it is? Or because I'm reminding Griff that leverage was his idea? I wasn't honest with him about the YouTube stuff, about what happened. I didn't give him a chance before, but I can now.

Griff studies me. “And the situation with your mom?”

My mom. The two little words I thought I'd burned and buried. “I don't know.”

He nods, spends a moment checking the bike's fuel line. “It bothers me that you don't tell me the truth. You had your mom, Carson, the guys from school . . . all this
stuff
and you didn't tell me any of it. It makes me feel like I don't matter.”

“I didn't tell you because you
do
matter.”

“You lied.”

“I didn't—it wasn't—”

It was.
I stare at Griff and the knowledge stains me. “I'm sorry, Griff. I was afraid.”

His eyes jerk to mine. “Why? I know what you are in the dark, Wick. I've seen it and you've seen me. I want you for you.”

“I didn't . . . think you would.” I hiccup and cover my mouth with my sleeve. I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry. “I was . . . ashamed and I know how much I have to lose and . . .”

I want you for you.

I hiccup again, smile behind my balled-up hand. “How have we never talked about this?”

“You never
wanted
to talk about it. I was waiting for you to be ready, but you're dealing with all that PTSD shit and you're healing—”

“You think I'm damaged?”

He says nothing and the nothing says everything. “It isn't flattering that you think I'm fragile.”

“It's not . . . okay, yeah.” He forks one hand through his dark hair, spiking it. “You're not fragile. This shit does . . .
damage
you, Wicked. I can't keep watching that.”

“You won't have to anymore.” I drop my hand, grin even though tears are still crowding my eyes. “He won't be able to touch me ever again—not if I upload that virus.”

Griff rubs one palm against his chest. “You kill me, you know that? I can't breathe when you smile.”

He sounds pissed and sad . . . and amazed.

“Can we try again?” I whisper.

“I never stopped.” Griff cups my face in his hand. “No matter how this turns out, Wicked, remember I was the lucky one. When it comes to you . . . I am so lucky.”

Griff touches his lips to mine and I press into him, realizing that this kiss might be what I really came for. I hook my hands into his shirt, feeling his breathing go uneven and fast. I will fix this.

No matter the cost.

I watch Griff drive off, and once I can no longer hear his bike's exhaust, I head inside. I'm staring at my feet, thinking first about the Bays and then about Carson. I don't even notice how the porch is dark until I'm up the steps, reaching for the door handle.

And that's when I see it.

Someone's nailed a dead rat to my front door.

22

Move.

I can't.

Move
now
.

I wrench my feet forward and check the front door's locks. They don't look damaged. I check the windows; the inside rooms don't look disturbed.

The porch light is out though. I feel around in the lantern and the bulb still seems to be intact. Someone must have loosened it, using the shadows for better coverage. I give it a twist and the yellow light returns to life. I'm thrilled until I realize I am now up close and personal with the rat. Thanks to the newly restored light, I can see my tiny reflection in its glassy eyes and the splash of blood on the welcome mat. Uck.

What the hell is going on here? If it's a scare tactic, it worked. I'm scared.

I'm also pissed.

I am
so
going to find out who did this.

After I get rid of the evidence. Bren and Lily will be home soon. There's no explanation in the world that will dismiss this, which means . . .

I stare at the rat, shudder. I'm going to have to touch it. Worse, I'm going to have to un-impale it from the door. Using what? Not my bare hands, that's for damn sure.

I unlock the front door and dump my stuff in the hallway. It takes me a minute, but I find some of Bren's Williams-Sonoma oven mitts in a drawer. I stare at them for a bit, trying to decide if I'm really going to do it. I think you go to rich people hell for stuff like this.

Screw it. I put on both gloves and try not to squeal like a three-year-old girl when I pull the rat off the door. Even through the heavy fabric, I can feel its bones and muscles give beneath my fingers. Giving, not breaking free. Shit. The body doesn't want to move. I'm going to have to pull harder.

I fight a dry heave and yank. Hard. The body gives, coming away from the door and into my hands.

“Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod!” I whimper, realizing I should've brought a trash bag and now I have nowhere to put the rat. I carry it into Bren's office, dump the body in her wastepaper basket, and pitch the gloves in after it.

If Bren asks about the oven mitts, I'll pretend to know nothing. It won't be much of a stretch. I avoid the kitchen at all costs.

After bundling up the body and burying it in the outside garbage bin, I clean everything: the porch, the mat, the door. I use enough bleach to kill every brain cell I have. Even after I finish, I still feel dirty.

 

While I'm washing
and rewashing my hands, I let my computer boot up, and once everything is going, I log in to our security camera feed, wrapping one arm around my stomach as I rewind the video, looking and looking until . . .
there
. There he is.

The security cameras got him. It just isn't going to help me.

The guy—dark jeans, long-sleeved dark T-shirt—eases onto the porch. He's looking down. Now he's looking behind him. Now he looks at the camera. He's wearing some sort of a zombie mask. It's the last thing I see before he spins the bulb off the connection and the porch goes dim and the image goes too grainy to see anything more than shadows.

Shit.

I rewind the video, play it again. Still no good.

Honestly? I expected to see Kyle, but this isn't him. In fact, I have no idea who it is . . . wait . . . maybe . . .

I slow the video, playing it frame by frame. The mask totally screws identifying the guy's face. There's something about the way he moves on the balls of his feet though . . . the way his shoulders round under his T-shirt . . . it looks familiar.

The guy reaches for the porch light, his hand and wrist and
watch
all facing the camera. Recognition punches me in the gut.

It's Jason Baines.

Which means this isn't just a scare tactic or even just retaliation for the roofies. He knows I've been informing and he's reminding me what happens to people who become narcs.

I rub my eyes, feeling the dull thump of an oncoming migraine. Jesus, what have I done? What have I managed to get myself into?

Stop it.

Better to ask: What am I going to do to get out of it?

I don't have an answer for that one.

I close the video file and return to the security system's feed. With Todd and my dad in jail, it's been so long since I've done this, it almost feels like someone else's life and, watching the empty yard and street, I start to think this might be what I do best: watching and waiting.

This isn't the way I wanted things to end up. I have a chance for my very own happily ever after. I can't let details like Jason Baines or Kyle Bay get in the way.

But what do I do about them?

My stomach growls and I press my palm to it. I haven't had anything to eat since this morning so I pad downstairs, keeping the lights off as I pull all the curtains shut. There's still no sign of Carson's watch detail and I don't know what that means. I do know the darkness makes me want to come out of my skin.

Get a grip. Get a grip. Get a grip.
I wander into the kitchen to fix a sandwich and avoid the windows. God, it's quiet. I refuse to say “too quiet” even though the description kind of fits. I pick up the television remote and tell myself I'm being a cliché. Too bad it doesn't stop my hands from shaking.

Reality television.

Reality television.

Really stupid sitcom.

Carson?

It's the evening news and they're showing a clip of the detective standing behind a podium, addressing a small group of people. His hair is smoothed back and his clothes look pressed.

“We can't discuss the case details at the moment,” he says, both hands gripping the microphone. “We can tell you the body discovered at the Bays' residence is Lell Daley's.”

The camera cuts to a picture of Lell and Kyle smiling, mouths slightly apart as if they were a gasp away from a belly laugh. She looks so in love it makes my stomach squeeze.

The picture vanishes, replaced with a close-up of Carson's face. “While I cannot confirm that Miss Daley's death has anything to do with Judge Bay or his family, I can assure you we are taking every precaution possible to protect
all
involved parties in the wake of these terrible tragedies.”

Well, protect what's left of them.
I watch the interview a little longer before switching it off. I'd rather deal with the silence. The detective's right. It has to be the older son. All of this seems so . . . family-related. Remember me? What if Kyle's trying to tell Bay to remember their dead mother? I know as well as anyone what losing a wife and mom can do to a family. What if Mrs. Bay's death tore them apart? Could work . . . except the Chelsea thing doesn't fit. Or maybe it does—she wasn't a blood relative, but she was there all the time, taking care of Bay; that sort of makes her family. How to explain Lell then?

I blow out a sigh. If not the family thing, there are no other connections between the victims.

Except for me.

Doesn't that prove the rule or whatever? I'm the only person who's outside the killer's scope and that's because I was stupid enough to get caught. Plus, he hasn't gone after me.

Yet.

I take another bite of sandwich and stare at the darkened television screen. Carson's getting better at the whole press junket thing—clothes, hair, manners. He actually said thank you to one of the reporters. I had no idea he knew the words. Maybe it's all part of his whole rising-star career thing. He wants to look more like a hero and less like, well, Carson. I grin, thinking about how he'll probably want an assistant next.

Wait a minute. An assistant. Judge Bay isn't the only connection among the victims.

So is Carson.

At school, Lauren said she saw him talking to Chelsea on several different occasions and she looked miserable during all of them. I'm sure I don't look real thrilled when I get stuck with Carson either. What if Chelsea was like me? What if she was informing? The killings feel like revenge. What if it's because Chelsea betrayed the judge?

I pick off the crusts on my sandwich, suddenly no longer hungry. What if Carson was using Chelsea the same way he's using me? It could mean something.

Or nothing. It could be my hate talking. It's happened before. Look what I thought of him during the Tessa debacle. I thought he was after her. I missed Todd entirely because I was too focused on the people I
wanted
to be evil.

Then again . . . no one hates Bay more than Carson. He's convinced the judge is corrupt.

Enough to frame him for murder?

No, that's stupid. Still . . . if all the victims worked for Carson that would make them valuable assets.

Or loose ends.

Shit. What does that make me?

23

Carson sets everything up for the next night, which works well for me since Bren is going into Atlanta for a business dinner and Lily's doing her dinosaur diorama at a friend's house. Griff and I are supposed to take the side entrance into the courthouse, the one closest to the employee parking lot. After seven p.m., Carson will take down the security system for a two-hour period, plenty of time to get in, get out.