Remember Me (4 page)

Carson's eyes inch over me. “You see anything else?”

“Not really.”

“The girl's BlackBerry was stolen. What do you think that means?”

I shrug. “Could be a lot. Could be nothing.”

“I think it's something. Associating with Baines like that, the murder . . . I think the judge is dirty.”

Again, I hate to agree with Carson. He's right though. Something's very wrong here. It's more than just having Baines around. Once upon a time, Judge Bay denied every restraining order my mom—my
real
mom—requested against my father. He threw out evidence, postponed hearings—it was almost like he wanted to help my father.

“I want you to take him down, Wick.”

And suddenly, Carson's interest in Baines makes sense. The dealer's small. He might lead to something bigger though. Like one of my dad's captains. Like a judge.

The detective puts another toothpick in his mouth, rolls it from side to side. “I can't touch him. Bay did prosecution for years before being elected to the bench. The chief says he's off-limits, but you can. Think of it as a public service.”

Destroying Bay? Not going to lie, I kind of like the feel of it. It's been ten years and I still hate him. I hate his tasseled loafers, his slicked-down hair, the way his eyes slide right through people like me.

Well . . . people like I used to be.

Underneath my skirt, my fingertips dig into the DVD case and I almost—
almost
—ask Carson if he knows that Hart guy. Something holds me back though. The detective would want to know why I want to know and then I'd have to explain. No thanks.

“Bay's out of my league,” I say finally.

“That so?” Carson's attention swivels to something behind me, a muscle jumping in his jaw. I turn, see Bren sitting in her Lexus, waiting for us to finish, ready to take me home.

Makes my throat close up tight.

“Pretty car.” Carson's not looking at me, but I can hear the smile in his voice. “Think she'll be able to hold on to it after everything that's happened?”

No.
Yes
. Of course.

I stand. “Bren was always the brains behind their company. She'll make it work.”

“Won't work if everyone keeps shunning her. Your new family is so interesting to me. Like, you ever wonder how she got your adoption papers to go through so fast? 'Cause I do. I think that's very interesting and I really wonder what would happen if I did some digging? Think I'd find anything that would make her look even worse?”

I try to swallow. Can't. There's no way he'd find anything on Bren . . . right?

“You can't save everyone you love, Trash. Doesn't work like that. In fact, I can make
sure
it doesn't work like that. Find out everything you can on Bay or I'll destroy you and make sure Bren gets the blame. Think how that would go: First she didn't recognize her husband was a monster; now her adopted kid is breaking the law. Bet they'd take your sister away from her.”

I bet they would.
I look at Carson, and, in the swirling blue lights, his grin grows monstrous. It pushes chills up my arms.

“Leave her alone,” I say. “I'll do it.”

4

Bren and I drive home in silence . . . or in silence as only Bren can do. She keeps tapping the steering wheel with her fingers, jiggling her left knee. She's vibrating, and I'm afraid to say anything in case it makes her spin apart.

“It's so horrible,” Bren says at last. She smoothes one hand against her pink skirt, forcing it to flatten. “Bay's a good man.”

I snort. Can't help it.

“He
is
.”

“I'll have to take your word for it.” And I will because, suddenly, I'm not in Bren's car. I'm standing over my mother as she cried. Bay was never good to her. The man's an ass, but if Bren thinks he's . . . wait a minute.

“Bren,” I say, and have to push each word from my tongue. “How
did
you manage to adopt us so quickly?”

A pause. “Bay helped.”

“Why would he help us?”

“I . . . paid him. It was worth every penny.”

I focus on the houses beyond the window so I don't have to see how Bren's watching me. She's waiting for a reaction and I only have this: Carson will find out.

And Bren will suffer.

My skin goes cold, clammy. “That doesn't make him good.”

“It does for me.” Bren turns the car onto our street, knee jiggling harder. “I'll get an appointment with your therapist tomorrow, and we'll pick up a notebook so you can catalog everything you're feeling.”

Yay! Feelings! I concentrate on picking at my battered wig so I don't groan. Bren's a big believer in therapy—especially after the Todd situation.

“There are some very good books out there on dealing with post-traumatic stress,” she continues. “I'll get a reading list from Dr. Norcut.”

There's a beat of silence and I can't tell whether Bren's paused for my response or just trying to catch her breath. I think she's going for reassuring, but her list sounds more like a plan of attack.

“I'm okay, Bren. Truly.” I fork one hand through my hair, rub my right temple, where my migraines usually start. “I don't have PTSD or whatever.”

“You don't know that.” We maneuver around the babysitter's Honda and park in the garage. Bren shuts off the car and touches her fingertips to my cheek, searching my face for any signs I'm about to freak.

I smile like I'm fine, like the corner of the DVD isn't digging into me.

My mom.
My
. Mom. It's a heartbeat in my ears.

“What if this starts to bring back . . . everything else?” Bren asks softly.

“It won't.”

“Wick, you've been doing so well. I think this could really set you off, and after everything that happened to you and everything you're still dealing with, we need to be prepared.”

I stare out the car window, gripping the DVD case even harder because Bren's not talking about Todd and she knows nothing about Carson. She's worried about my mom's suicide and whether I'll obsess over it because I saw a dead body.

And even though Bren means well, I'm suddenly, savagely irritated with her. I wish people would stop examining me for damage.

“What happened tonight wasn't suicide,” I say, taking a shaky breath and letting it out bit by bit. “It's not like what happened to my mom. That girl was murdered.”

Bren flinches. “I want you to talk to Dr. Norcut tonight. This can't have been good for you.”

Good for me? She makes the whole thing sound like we're discussing my vegetable intake. It's stupid . . . until I realize there's guilt seeping under her determination.

“What happened tonight wasn't your fault,” I whisper.

“Maybe not. That doesn't mean it was good for you though.” Bren pops open the car door, and under the garage light, the smudges under her eyes turn black. “I think you need to talk to someone.”

“I'm really tired. Can we do it later?”
Or like, maybe never?
I hold Bren's gaze, trying to look equal parts pitiful and hopeful. I don't want to stoop to a quivering lower lip, but . . .

“Fine. We can wait for morning.” Bren rubs one hand over her face. “I need to pay the babysitter and check on Lily. Try to get some rest, all right?”

I nod, reaching for the door handle.

“Wick?”

“Yeah?”

“You're not getting out of this. I'm calling Dr. Norcut's emergency line tonight.” Bren grabs her purse, heaves it onto one shoulder. “God help that answering service if they give me any shi—
problems
about making you an appointment too.”

Norcut's answering service always gives her problems when she calls. In fact, they give her so many problems that I start to tell Bren it's a waste of time. Too late. She's already out of the car, charging into the house. Honestly, she should just wait until the psychiatrist's assistant gets in on Monday. If she calls tonight, she'll be on the phone for hours . . . which might not be a bad thing.

It might even be great because I'd have all the time I need to go through the DVD.

Tucked into the waistband of my skirt, my mother's name begins to burn.

 

Upstairs, I turn
on all the lights, make it look like daytime in my bedroom. I shouldn't, because Bren always notices and I always refuse to explain. We both know why though: Todd came for me in the dark. Admitting I'm scared—even to myself—is embarrassing.

Turning off the lights is worse.

Considering Bren thinks I'm headed for a nervous breakdown, I should probably do something to look more on board. Maybe turning off one light or screwing the grates onto my air-conditioning vents. That would be progress.

Except I don't think I can manage either.

After discovering Todd installed video cameras in my room's vents, I took down the painted metal grates. They've been lying in my closet for months. It's comforting to be able to look up and see the air-conditioning vents are still empty.

Maybe I'll screw them on again . . . later.

I toss the DVD case onto my desk and power on the computer, waiting for it to return to life. Because I run a metric ton of firewall and antivirus software, my system takes longer than most to boot up. Usually, I don't mind, but tonight it feels like the longest four minutes of my life as I change out of my costume and into yoga pants and a sweatshirt.

Once I'm logged in, I slide in the DVD and start a scan program, checking to see if any viruses are waiting for me, then, while the program finishes the check, I open Firefox and search “Officer Hart Peachtree City.”

There's a loan officer . . . a technology officer . . . but no
police
officer by that name. The back of my skull prickles. Could he be new? Possibly. Then again, I was at a costume party. Maybe he was in dress-up? I decide I'll have to look into new officer hires and switch windows, closing my search page and opening the local newspaper's website.

Sure enough, there's a human interest story about Todd's family and how devastated they are, how they wish Bren wouldn't divorce him in his hour of need. I've never met my former foster dad's parents and, frankly, I'm not feeling the lack. Instead, I go straight for the comment section.

Hidden behind anonymous handles, our neighbors are letting it rip. Some are siding with Bren. Some are showing support for Tessa Waye, Todd's first victim. I'm interested in the ones who are out to blast my adoptive mom.

Like BrownBear47, for instance. According to BB, Bren is a coward and a fool and is destined for bankruptcy. How nice we live in a country where everyone can have an opinion.

It's even nicer that I can take that opinion down. Takes me a bit to log in as the website administrator, but I block BrownBear's ISP address. She—somehow it feels like a she—won't be getting on the newspaper forum on her home computer any time soon. And just in case she decides to use another computer, I lock her out of her account as well.

Am I petty? Probably. Is it satisfying? Definitely. Does it help Bren? Not sure. Not going to stop.

I've just finished deleting the last hater when my antivirus program flashes. The DVD's scan is done. No viruses found. A table of contents pops onto my screen. There must be twenty different files. I swallow, take a deep breath, and pick the first one.

The image shifts, revealing a thin woman sitting at a metal table, and even though I knew I was going to see my mom, it still feels like getting punched. It's her dark hair, her lean cheekbones. It's
her
and I expected that, but my stomach still hits bottom. For a second, I think I'm going to be sick.

The video opens with a close-up, then jerks back for a wider shot. For about ten seconds, no one says anything as the camera gets adjusted and a fluorescent light above them flickers. My mom touches the side of her neck, snags her fingers in her hair, and suddenly, I remember the way it smelled. Vanilla. All her clothes smelled like vanilla. For months after she died, I would sit in her closet and bury my face in them.

Until my father caught me and burned them.

“I only have an hour and then I have to be home.” Again, another punch. I haven't heard that voice in four years. How could I have forgotten how she made her vowels slide?

My mom stares straight into the camera with glossy, plastic doll eyes. “Now isn't a good time.”

“Then you'll have to be fast, won't you?” A man's voice emerges off camera. I don't recognize it. He must be to my left—my mom's right—because her eyes follow the sound and her mouth flattens.

“There's nothing new to report. He isn't involving me.”

He? Who's he?
What's she reporting?
I lean a little closer to the screen, and even though I can hear her fine, I turn up the volume.

“What are you doing to encourage him to involve you?”

My mom winces. The camera zooms in as she covers her mouth—her
bruised
mouth—and suddenly I know who “he” is. My dad. They're talking about my dad. What kind of interview is this?

“I've asked to help,” she continues, her gaze wandering around the cramped room. “I told him I would be willing to work. He was . . . uninterested.” Her hand drops to the table, revealing a pale forearm marred by dark fingerprints. “I did try, Detective.”

My hands curl. Detective. Work. She's collaborating with the police. I crank the volume again, trying to identify the guy's voice.

“Then you should try harder,” he says. “You know how to handle him, Mrs. Tate. I know you do. You wanted him in the first place. He's your husband.”

My mom's eyes lift to the camera, stare straight at me. “I wanted him to save me. There's a difference.” She swallows. “I have to go.”