Remember Me (32 page)

“You're wrong, Detective. It ends tonight. It ends just like this.” And I walk out the door.

What Happened After

By the time I leave Carson's, all hell has broken loose. The cops are pissed I disappeared. The EMTs are pissed I disappeared. Bren has left me four voice mails because, due to someone's infinite wisdom, she was notified and she's pissed I disappeared.

I drive straight to the Fayette County hospital and plead a head injury.

Ten minutes later, I'm admitted. Twenty minutes later, the cops I ditched show up.

You'd think we'd all be happier to see each other.

Not.

The doctors keep me overnight in the hospital, and when I wake up, it's so quiet, I think I'm alone . . . then I see Bren. My smile has never hurt so much and it is
so
worth it. She's worth it. I escaped. It's over.

But when I reach for Bren, she recoils.

“What are you?” she breathes.

My skin crawls. “Nothing.”

“You're lying.”

We study each other, Bren using silence as a leverage that will never work on me. I know how this game is played. I'll wait. Even if the silence drowns us.

Bren touches her fingertips to her lips, chin. “You didn't find him on a hunch, did you?”

She should be talking about Bay or Ian or Jason. She's not. She's talking about Todd.

“You tracked him down,” Bren continues softly. “You hunted him.”

Him. Her husband still turns soft in her mouth, like Todd's living under her tongue.

Stick to the story, Wick. That's what is in the police report. That's what you have to say.
But, right now, I can't say anything. For the first time, I want the words and I don't have them. I want to explain and I can't.

I look at her. “He deserved it, didn't he?”

“Yes.” The word escapes on a hard exhale. Bren stands up, starts to pace.

“It isn't like what you're thinking.”

“Then what's it like?”

I study the blanket . . . the hospital ID tag. Now is the time to say something and I have nothing.

“That's what I thought,” Bren says, and I feel her take one step back. Two. Her breathing has gone shallow and loud. “Then it's true? That you've been entrapping people online? You've been breaking the law? Why would you do that?”

How could I
not
? I don't say that though. How do I explain that I lived in the dark so they could stay in the light? How do you explain that?

You don't.

So I let Bren think I'm deranged. Damaged.

It might be pretty damn close to the truth anyway.

As long as we're on the subject of truth, Ian and Jason came clean the night they were arrested. Technically, Jason confessed first: why he killed Lell (to save her from Kyle), why he killed Kyle (to keep him from Lell). His love and his hate seem so sound-bite tidy when the police explain it like that. Everyone nods and I have to struggle not to gag.

The boys partnered with each other for the money—and also to get revenge on the father they hated. Kyle, for all his imperfections, was the judge's favorite child, the one who would inherit everything, the one who was openly praised, the one who was
noticed
.

Jason was at the party to see Ian when I roofied him, a mistake that made Jason see me as a loose end and Ian see me as his own. This actually came up with the cops—how I roofied Jason. He told them all about it and he might've had something there too since Ian backed his story, but Bren swore I never left her side during the party. I still don't know if she lied for me or if she just didn't remember. Either way, Ian won't see the outside of a prison cell until he's old enough to retire and Jason won't be too far ahead of him.

Bay lived. For a while, we were a few doors away from each other at the hospital. Then he was transferred to a rehab center with promises that he should be able to go home soon. As far as I know, he never did. The house was repaired and went up for sale. He retired—effective immediately—from his position. He moved. No idea where. I guess I could find out if I wanted. I like pretending he disappeared though. It's almost as good as pretending the whole thing never happened.

In the end, Bren checks me out of the hospital once both doctors (the first opinion and the second opinion) say I'm good to go. We go home and nothing's the same. Part of me mourns it. Another part of me thinks everything is just so much easier now. There's less need to include me. Less pressure to be perfect.

Less notice when I slip away.

I don't remember who I am anymore, who I'm supposed to be. Sometimes I go back to my old neighborhood and stare at our house. I'm not sure how I went from the girl who lived there to the girl I am now. Did it happen when Carson started blackmailing me? When Todd preyed on Lily? When Tessa jumped?

Or when my mom did?

I don't know. I don't know that I'll ever know, but I do understand this: I'd struggled to survive for so long, I didn't recognize when I was safe. I won't make that mistake again.

Funny how safe brings me to Milo, isn't it? The boy has a thing for explosives. How does that make anyone feel safe? Milo knows something's wrong and even though I don't tell him . . . well, I'm sure he's figured out things aren't so great at home. I think it makes him try harder with me. Some days I'm grateful because it makes me feel like I'm still here. I still exist.

Other days . . . I wish he wouldn't because this isn't who I want to be.

Naturally, Milo disagrees. He thinks we're brilliant together. I think we're dangerous. We're too alike. There's nothing noble, nothing good about either of us.

Except it
feels
awfully good when we're together.

What else? Oh, Carson's still gone. No one knows where he went. Agents from the ATF and NSA are searching for him and he must have better skills than I would have given him credit for because they're coming up empty-handed.

It's an interesting development—not interesting enough to keep my days from stretching into one long smear though. I open my hacking-for-hire business again. Not because I have to; because I need it.

I need something to distract me from Lily's anger, Bren's watchful eyes, and the voice mail from my dad. He called one day while I was in the shower, left a message saying, “You owe me.” The old Wick would've puked. The new Wick . . . well, I replayed the voice mail twice and thought,
Maybe. He'll have to catch me first
.

Tough words considering it kick-started another round of insomnia. I'm barely sleeping and, when I do, I dream of Joe. I wake up at two or three in the morning drenched in sweat, skin slippery as blood. I don't feel bad—I don't—but his murder left a stain.

I just need some time for everything to settle. Only it doesn't, because I come home from school one day to find Bren waiting for me in the living room. There's a guy with her, and even before he turns around, I know him. Maybe because part of me has been waiting for this.

Officer Hart—only it isn't “officer,” is it? That suit and tie look like Fed—stands next to our couch, and when I step closer, he comes forward, ready to shake my hand.

“I'm so glad to meet you, Wicket. Your mom's told me all about you.”

I glance at Bren and my eyes snag on her hands. They're clasped in front of her chest like she's praying . . . or holding herself down.

“Wick,” Bren begins. “Considering some of the . . . difficulties you've been going through, Dr. Norcut recommended we contact Mr. Hart. He runs a program for at-risk youth, for teenagers dealing with loss. We want you to go. We think you need the help.”

She's sending me away? It nearly kicks my legs out from under me. I straighten. “I think I'm doing fine.”

Bren's mouth thins. “I'll give you two a moment then.” She pushes off the couch, pawing her eyes. My skin goes hot then cold. She's . . .
leaving me
.

Like an idiot, I open my mouth, snap it shut. That won't work. I don't know the words to bring her back even if I can name all my feelings—another gift from Norcut. There's hurt and horrified . . . and hate.

I face Hart. This feels like a game, and when I see the way he grins, I know somehow I've lost.

“I was so looking forward to meeting you properly, Wicket. You have exceeded every expectation we could dream of.”

“Oh yeah?”

“We want to help you. We've seen what you can do, how determined you can be when properly motivated.” He lifts his brows like my biological mother is a punch line he's waiting for me to get. “What you did with those video clips of your mother? Excellent job. I've enlisted dozens of kids over the years. Your results were the best.”

The best?
My throat closes. I did an excellent job by following their clues? Or by taking down Joe? I'm not sure, but, suddenly, I feel very used . . . and afraid. What did Carson say? That he was protecting me from people who were worse? So that means . . . ?

“No smile?” Hart sighs and his eyes pull at the corners with some emotion I won't name. “Let's be friends. We're the good guys, Wicket. Trust me.”

Acknowledgments

At this point, I feel like I am thanking the usual suspects, but there's no way I would be here without any of them, so here we go.

As always, I'm indebted to my long-suffering agent, Sarah Davies, who routinely pulls me back from the edge even when—especially when—I cannot do it myself. A big thank-you to both my editors, Karen Chaplin and Jessica MacLeish, who are beyond gracious with their time and their feedback. I know darn well my timeline issues make you both twitchy. Next book, I promise to use a calendar, but we all know I'll probably forget again . . . and then you'll have to fix me again . . . and then I'll break out the calendar again . . . and forget it again—and you know what? Let's just leave it at: thank you for putting up with my digressions.

All of them.

You know who else puts up with me? Alana Whitman, Olivia deLeon, Margot Wood, and Aubry Parks-Fried. Thank you for everything, ladies. I so so so appreciate your expertise and input over the past two years.

And, of course, a very sincere thank-you to Joel Tippie for the exceptional covers. They are beyond beautiful.

Another big thank-you to the Doomsdaisies, who make me look way cooler than I am—especially looking at you, Cecily White. Thank you to Pintip Dunn and Stephanie Winkelhake for talking me through, well,
everything
, and particular thanks to Meg Kassel and Sally Kilpatrick, who saw every incarnation of this novel, and I do mean
every
incarnation. You ladies are so gracious. Thank you.

Huge, huge, huge thank-you to Natalie Richards, who has toured with me, critiqued with me, and pulled me out of the fetal position more times than I can count. Or want to. I'm a better writer because of you.

An equally enormous thank-you to my husband, Boy Genius, for all the website stuff and editing stuff and making sure there's food in the house stuff. For everything, basically. And another thank-you to my parents. I wouldn't be here without your unwavering support.

I would also like to thank Kari at
A Good Addiction
, Shay at
Shaytastic Books
, and Alex at
Peace, Love, and Fangirl
for all the beta reads and feedback. I am crazy lucky to have you guys.

Speaking of lucky, I want to particularly thank Ashley at Nose Graze and her husband, Peter, for their technical expertise. I know how slammed you two are. I really appreciate you taking the time to answer all my questions.

Another thank-you to Natalie C. Parker, who is not only an amazing writer, but also does an amazing critique. And thank you to Abra Schwartz for letting me steal one of her observations. She knows which one.

Bottom line,
Remember Me
is so much better because of all of you. You took time away from your writing and your lives to help and I cannot begin to tell you how much you mean to me. Thank you.

And, last but not least, thank you to all the bloggers and librarians who have been so passionate about the Find Me series. You guys are amazing. It's been a total privilege.

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