Remember Me (21 page)

No! Don't! I'll quit! I will do anything you ask!
Everything I'm supposed to say and I don't. Can't.

“I'm sorry, Griff.”

“Liar.” He sounds proud of me though and something buried inside me shatters. “You love this. Tell me you don't.”

I . . . can't.

“This work.” Griff sighs, shaking his head. “It's consuming you, Wick.”

Our eyes meet and I stiffen. He's not thinking of the work. He's thinking of how I fell apart and cried. He's thinking I can't handle it.

He might be right. A pang of anxiety hits me low and spreads through my bones. Is this how he's always seen me? How long has he felt like this? When I imagined this conversation . . . it never occurred to me that I would see another side of myself.

One that was even more loathsome than the person I thought I am.

Griff smiles, and this time it's real. “You're the most honest criminal I know, Wicked.”

He takes a cautious step toward me—because he can't trust me? Or because he can't trust himself? He touches my face with the backs of his fingers, runs his thumb over my lips. It drives delighted chills up my spine. My body responds to him like everything is the same.

Like nothing's ruined.

His fingers find the hollow behind my ear, the blunted edge of my jaw. I lean into him and feel how my insides knock loose.

He can bury me alive.

Griff softly touches his lips to mine, a ghost kiss to say good-bye. It's so damn fitting I want to scream.

“Good-bye, Wicked.” He pauses, waiting for me to say it back and I won't. Maybe if I don't, he won't leave.

I can't do this. I have to think of a way around Carson's threat.

But Griff's already walking away and I have to fight not to run after him. Just as well since I don't think I'd make it two steps. His absence is immediate and heavy and I can't breathe around it.

Griff slams the door and my knees hit the floor.

28

The next day, I play sick. Actually . . . it's not really playing. I don't think I could get out of bed if I tried and the realization makes me want to laugh until I puke. I am truly my mother's daughter now.

Up on the nightstand, my phone vibrates. Another text. Lauren?

Carson.

He wants to meet day after tomorrow and I'll need something good to give him.

I stare at my ceiling, weigh my options. The sniffer is working great if I'm interested in reviewing Bay's work material or discovering what party his now dead assistant wanted him to attend. Other than that, it hasn't been much good. Carson already has the pictures of Lell. So that leaves . . .

Norcut. I'm not super thrilled about pursuing her either. It hits awfully close to home since Bren has been taking Lily and me to the child psychiatrist for almost a year.

Hard to tell what her angle is. Is she trying to help her onetime client? Or is she trying to help cover something up? I could find out. She has less security than Bay, which makes her an easier target.

Except that would mean using Milo, wouldn't it? Finding a way into Norcut's computer files from scratch would take time. Using Milo's in . . . it could be a fast job. But that would require asking a favor from Milo.

Milo, who looks at me in a way that Griff hates.

Then again, that doesn't matter anymore, does it?

It still takes me a few minutes to screw together the courage to call him though. I dial Milo's number and it almost goes to voice mail before he picks up, his voice sleep-sticky. “Aren't you supposed to be in school?”

“Remember when you told me you could get into Norcut's network?”

“Yeah.”

“I want to follow up on it.”

“Great.” There's a rustling from the other end. Milo must be sitting up, throwing off the blankets. “I'll meet you today. We'll talk it through. I didn't make it the easiest system to navigate.”

“No.” I run one hand over my face and realize my hair is sticking out everywhere. “No need. I already know how I want to work it. I'll get into her office. I just need you to get me a distraction and her passwords so I have time to mess with the computer in her office.”

“Fine.” Milo sounds deflated. “I'll do something with the security system. I'll call you back tonight with details.”

I hang up and flip the phone onto the bed. Now for the rest of the plan.

I go downstairs and find Bren in her office, reviewing a contract as thick as my fist. “Bren?”

She looks up and her face creases into a smile. “Are you feeling better? How's your head?”

“Not that great.” I try to arrange my features to look depressed. It's not hard. “I think I need to see Dr. Norcut. Could you get me an appointment?”

 

Dr. Allison Norcut
is one of the East Coast's top child psychiatrists, with a waiting list that's rumored to be three months out. I wouldn't know. Any time Lily and I look sideways, Bren drags us in. And, sure enough, she's able to get me an appointment for the following afternoon.

We pull into Norcut's parking lot precisely ten minutes ahead of time, but because Bren is still on the phone with a client, we spend another five or six minutes sitting around.

Finally, when it looks like the guy on the other end is never going to shut up, Bren covers the cell's mouthpiece with one hand. “Wick, honey, can you go inside without me? I promise I won't be too long.”

I nod and get out, take the elevator to Norcut's third-floor office. This late in the afternoon, it's deserted. There's only the office assistant manning the sleek front desk.

“Hi, Wicket,” Trina says, pulling off a headset that's probably meant to look more Nicki Minaj than “Do you want fries with that?”

“You can go in,” she says. “Dr. Norcut will only be a few more minutes.”

“Thanks.” I smile, close the office door behind me. The psychiatrist's tastes are a study in grays. Gray chairs. Gray carpet. Gray walls.

I drop onto a gravel-colored sofa pushed against a granite-colored wall and check my phone.

One. Lights go off. Backup generator turns on. I hunch into the cushions, watching the shadows flick back and forth underneath the door. Norcut and Trina are on the move and Norcut sounds pissed.

Two. Norcut asks Trina to get a handle on the situation and Trina say she's trying. She sounds like she's failing.

Three. The alarm system goes off and I launch myself across the room. Norcut's keyboard is shiny clean (God, the woman's predictable) but the keys are worn on the
L
,
M
, and
N
. The number keys to the right are worn on the 1, 5, 6, and 9.

I roll my eyes, unable to stop the grin. God, I love it when people never change their password. I key in Norcut's initials, the password Milo gave me: ALN1965. The home screen populates.

Hot damn. I open her My Documents folder and skim through the file listing, where Norcut's literal brain is a total windfall for me. It's crazy easy to navigate. I click on the file marked Patients and scroll through the list.

BAY, KYLE is near the top.

I double click the folder and skim through the documents inside. Patient histories. Lots of them. Looks like Norcut scans her handwritten notes and saves them as PDFs. I don't know what will be useful so I select the entire group and copy it to my jump drive. After the backup is complete, I scroll down and select the last file she added.

It's dated the eleventh, four days before Kyle and Lell supposedly eloped, and talks all about his rage.

 

Patient highly agitated and convinced someone is following him. No amount of reason can sway him. He is unable to articulate why someone would follow him, but he is insistent that it's happening.

 

Paranoia? That's interesting. Outside, Norcut's voice goes up another octave and I cut a quick look at the door. Not much more time. Kyle's paranoia is definitely interesting. Doesn't make him the killer though.

 

Both boys exhibit depression symptoms. May need to adjust Kyle's medication dosage. Complaints of blackouts. Real or imaginary? Must speak with parents to confirm.

 

Both boys? I flip to My Documents again and check the file listing for Ian. There's nothing. Was he a patient? It doesn't look like it. Then again, it's not like I've found everything Norcut has. She could have filed Ian somewhere else. Why keep Kyle here? And how do the parents figure in? Kyle's mom would've been undergoing chemo treatments at this point. Was she supportive?

 

Will recommend an in-patient therapy program for long term. I have serious concerns about the upcoming reelection. The pressures in the current environment could prove to be too great. He could relapse. Or worse.

Several family members support a long-term psychiatric solution. The mother, in particular, feels it's necessary and she mentioned several times that her husband's assistant feels the same. They're afraid.

 

Of Kyle. Interesting—even more interesting that Chelsea recommended Kyle be put away and now she's dead. Could the murders be about revenge? What if “remember me” is a question and a command? Remember who you put away. Remember
me
.

Because my head is filled with Kyle, I don't hear the door. It opens with the faintest whoosh against the carpet and I have just enough time to double tap CTRL, ALT, DEL, sending the computer into a full reboot. I spin around, ready to say . . . something.

But it isn't Dr. Norcut standing in the doorway.

It's Bren.

“Get away from the computer,” she whispers and, for a second, I think I've misunderstood. This is wrong. Bren should be pissed.

“Get.
Away
.”

Nope, she's pissed. I bounce from the chair, pushing the jump drive deep into my coat pocket as I head for the couch. I sit down and Bren sits next to me. We both listen to Norcut outside, and when the doctor returns, Bren grabs my hand, her palm slick against mine.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Callaway. We seem to be having computer difficulties. Could we”—Norcut winces, anticipating Bren's response—“reschedule?”

“Yes. Sure. No problem.” Bren hauls me to my feet while the psychiatrist stares at us, mouth slightly unhinged. She can't believe her good luck. “I'll call you.”

“Please do.” Norcut's pale eyes follow us. “I'm always happy to help.”

And what a help she was. It's almost enough to make me grin. But even if Norcut helped me with my Bay problem . . . I sneak a sideways look at Bren and my stomach squeezes.

She's breathing light and hard through her mouth, eyes fixed straight ahead. Yeah, I now have a new problem, and Bren won't be easy.

The elevator must have ten people waiting on it so we take the stairs, saying nothing until Bren pushes through the glass double doors and we're out in the parking lot.

Bren spins around on me, her hand reaching for pearls she isn't wearing. “What were you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“What were you
doing
, Wick?”

“Checking my email.” I study my Chucks like I'm too embarrassed to meet her eyes, which I'm not of course. I'm
not
.

I am having a hard time looking at her though.

“On someone else's personal computer?”

“Sorry.”

“I don't understand,” Bren continues. “First the boys at school, now this.”

There's a pause. The longer it continues, the more I realize I'm supposed to fill it with some logical explanation: I'm depressed, I'm angry, I'm having flashbacks.

Because all those things are fixable and if I'm not fixable . . .

I slide my hand into my pocket, grip the jump drive in my palm. “I didn't think about it like that.”

Another pause. “Why don't I believe you?”

Is that a rhetorical question?
Now I do glance up, try to gauge her mood and realize I can't.

This isn't a Bren I've seen before. She isn't staring at me like I'm broken. She's watching me like I'm dangerous.

29

As promised, I turn in everything I found to Carson and I'm surprised to realize it's kind of weird for me to operate like this. When I ran my own investigations, I put together an entire profile for customers: finances, job histories, online interests. By the time I was done, I knew my target inside and out.

Working like this is totally different. I give pieces of the person to Carson and he does . . . what? I probably don't want to know. It gets him off my case though. Carson hasn't bothered me for almost a week, letting me pretend he doesn't exist and my life is back to normal.

Lab project? Done.

Homework? Done.

Sleeping? Sort of.

My life is normal, or as normal as it can be now that Griff's no longer in it.

Now that I have the Mini again, I roll into school as late as possible, careful to avoid him in the halls. This is easier than expected since I never see him anymore. Well, that's not entirely true. I see glimpses. His dark head moving through the crowded hallways, his bottle-green eyes slashing away, his smile cutting through the afternoon dark.

God, Griff's smile.

My
smile.

Only it isn't mine anymore.

It's easier to smother those thoughts when I stay busy though so I end up riding around with Lauren a lot over the next few days. After being gone for almost two weeks, she's back and wound tighter than ever. We haven't talked about her mom—she doesn't want to—but I'm helping her catch up on homework, waiting for her to finish cheer practice and gym classes. I get home later, but I don't mind.

Actually, considering the way Bren's watching me, it's kind of a relief.